


we are waiting in the wings for you

by Daydreamer5187, StegesaurusKay



Series: Past Patiently Waiting [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Ambush, Anger, Angst, Frustration, Gen, George Washington is a Dad, Hurt hamilton, Kidnapping, Medical Torture, Obsession, Protective Washington, Stalking, Washingdad, Whump, stab wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-09-14
Packaged: 2020-09-07 05:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20304442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreamer5187/pseuds/Daydreamer5187, https://archiveofourown.org/users/StegesaurusKay/pseuds/StegesaurusKay
Summary: Hamilton is attacked whilst travelling back to Washington. He awakens in his own bed, recovering from a stab wound, the general’s relieved gaze meeting him. Then he’s introduced to his supposed rescuer, and he instantly recognizes him.It’s the man who attacked him. And he’s not done with Hamilton yet.





	1. there is quiet

**Author's Note:**

> This is not only my first collaboration with Kay, it’s my first collab ever! So we’re very excited to share this with you! We think it’ll be about four chapters long. This is Part One of the Past Patiently Waiting series, one of three. We hope you enjoy it!

Riding through the forest at high speed, Alexander Hamilton’s sole focus is on reaching the camp not far off. The horse gallops, hooves beating against the ground in time with Hamilton’s breath. He’s focused, driven, and carrying a batch of missives that are vital, and must get to General Washington’s hands immediately. 

Hamilton is tired. He aches. He’s been riding for hours, but once he hands off these messages he can rest. Usually not one to indulge in even short breaks, Hamilton thinks this one time he can allow himself a few hours.

The back of his neck prickles with the anticipation of… _something_. Perhaps he might’ve ignored the sting of his danger receptors, had he not then been given ample reason for them a moment later. 

His horse abruptly stumbles and shrieks, and Hamilton suddenly finds himself not in the saddle. The poor animal hits the ground and legs flail wildly in the air. Hamilton lands nearby flat on his back, all of the air knocked from his lungs.

Black spots appear in front of his eyes as he tries to gasp in a breath. The world around him rings, and somewhere through it he hears his horse still screaming like she’s been hurt. Hamilton knows he needs to get up, check on her, but it’s difficult to move; his lungs strain from lack of air.

“Whu…” He coughs, waits a minute. The breath comes, finally, easier, and easier each time he greedily sucks in air. The threatening blackness fades, and at last Hamilton can sit up. His back and shoulders ache from the sudden fall, but he can get past it, ignore it. He pushes himself to his knees.

It’s quiet, he belatedly realizes. Hardly more than an arm’s length away, Hamilton’s horse lies on the ground. She’s gone still and silent, the screaming ceased. When he leans forward he realizes why; a bullet hole has pierced the animal’s chest.

Hamilton is barely able to find his feet before he’s set upon. The footsteps, the sudden weight come out of nowhere. A heavy limb slings around his neck and pulls him away from the animal. His head is forced up, but all he sees are patches of yellow and orange leaves and gaps of sky peeking through them above.

“Let… _go_!” He grunts past the grip on his throat, digging with his fingernails. Hamilton kicks, squirms, but he can’t get away as he’s forced against something solid. He can’t see his attacker beyond the white sleeve pinning him. Clearly the stranger is strong, solid. Hamilton can put up a fight, but there’s just nowhere to go, so he resorts to a string of curses and threats.

That doesn’t garner any kind of response either. 

He turns into the grip, fighting for leverage. For a moment Hamilton finds some success, but all too quickly his opponent adjusts. He tries to swing a leg backward, hoping to strike a leg or something more solid, but no, he’s forcibly twisted the other way and loses his footing.

He can’t turn his head, can’t see behind him, but whoever it is that’s grabbed him almost seems to know what kind of moves Hamilton intends before he does.

It’s maddening.

The arm moves a little lower, braces against his chest and jerks him sideways. Hamilton doesn’t have a moment to react before the knife sinks into his side between his ribs.

For an instant that stretches into an eon, the world freezes. Hamilton’s eyes go wide, the air races from his lungs again, but this time in a way that seems cold, permanent. The arm securing him lets go, and he instantly crumples to the ground, hands flying to his side. They come away so covered in blood that he almost thinks it can’t possibly all belong to him.

Did he fall on the horse?

...Horse?

Hamilton is turned onto his back, and pain flares through his whole side. A figure leans over him, a warm hand grasping his chin. A thumb pulls down on his lower lip, but the only sound that he can manage is a choked gasp. It toys with the edge of his teeth, presses against his tongue so he gags and wheezes.

A face leans close to his. It’s so hard to focus; he can’t quite make out any features. He doesn’t recognize this man. 

There’s a flash of white teeth. “Just relax, boy,” Sounds slowly begin to fade, but there’s no concern, no urgency in that voice. “I’m here to help.”

As the pain slowly recedes unconsciousness reaches up to claim him, Hamilton thinks he hears a chuckle lingering in the air. The world goes black, and can’t remember what was so funny.

* * *

When he regains consciousness he’s far warmer. That’s all he can remember, for a while; that he’s warmer than he was. It’s a pretty useless thing to remember, he concedes. 

Determined to rectify this, Hamilton forces his eyes open and blinks their sleep addled haze away. A fire crackles behind him, and now that he has started to regain his senses he realizes he’s cocooned in the cotton quilt of his bed. 

That doesn’t seem right. It feels like that should be quite improbable, but he doesn’t remember why. 

Washington enters his field of vision, relief shining clearly through the general’s eyes as he pushes a rebellious piece of hair away from his aide’s face. Hamilton groans, something akin to a grin quirking his lips. A full-bodied ache follows as he wakes up properly, quickly turning his expression to a wince. 

“Easy now,” Washington rumbles when he tries to move, “just rest. You were hurt.” 

Ah yes, now he remembers. That explains the ache. 

“ ‘m chest,” he mumbles, “I was-”

“Stabbed, yes. We know.” Hamilton’s cheeks flush, because of course they know, it’s rather hard to miss. “Gave everyone a bit of a fright I’m afraid,” Washington grins humourlessly, his voice still hushed. 

Hamilton hums. “Suppose a little excitement never hurt anybody. Help me up.”

“I must disagree with you on that, my boy,” Washington huffs as he grasps the boy’s arm and steadies Hamilton with a palm against his back. “Do you recall what happened?” 

“I was stabbed,” the boy offers cheekily. The grin returns at the general’s reprimanding look. “I was riding hard, I had… I had missives for you! Were they taken? They were dreadfully important.” 

Washington reaches into his coat, produces the letters. Hamilton relaxes, to Washington’s amusement. “I worry your regard is far too often on your work and not your health,” he teases. “You were, as you said, stabbed.” 

“Yes, well,” Hamilton continues, “my horse was shot and killed, and then a man was on me. He had an arm around my neck, and I couldn’t fight him off. He exposed my side and stabbed me.” Hamilton drops his gaze. “Quite efficiently, really,” he finishes, far more conversationally than the sentence entails or he really feels. 

Washington shifts, his mouth opening as if to reply once, twice, and then closes. “You’re safe now,” he finally offers. “I should introduce you to your rescuer, in fact.” 

Out of civility, Hamilton nods. He doesn’t particularly want visitors right now, excluding the general of course. Washington stands and makes his way to the door, which sits slightly ajar. He opens it and returns with a man. 

Hamilton sees the man and feels his entire body tense, but it isn’t until he speaks that Hamilton _knows_. 

“I’m glad I was there to help,” he says, flashing his teeth. _I’m here to help_ he remembers his attacker sneering, gripping his face. 

He’s here. Dark brown hair falls into a casual braid, his skin creases in all the right places and smoothes in all the others to give away his age, and there’s a glint in his eye which Hamilton instinctively knows is dangerous. 

The man takes a step towards him and Hamilton gasps, jerks himself backwards before the pain reminds him that he shouldn’t move. 

“Hamilton…?” Washington asks worriedly, his brow furrowing. 

“He attacked me,” Hamilton whispers, before gaining volume, “he’s the one who attacked me.” 

The general meets the man’s eye calmly, confusion reflected in both their expressions where only alarm shines in Hamilton’s. 

“He brought you here, Hamilton,” Washington explains. “He saved your life.” 

“I’m just so glad that I was in the area, I was returning from a scouting expedition you see, carrying the report, and I found you on the road. Why, you looked half dead already and I admit I wanted to turn away from the sight; I thought you dead, Officer Hamilton.” Hamilton doesn’t like the fact that he knows his name, as inevitable as it is that he would. “I apologize, I’m being terribly rude. Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Sergeant Samuel Davies, at your service.” 

He extends his hand, expecting a handshake which Hamilton is reluctant to provide. The aide looks to Washington, who is also clearly expecting Hamilton to reciprocate the gesture. 

“Colonel Hamilton,” he finally supplies, albeit stiffly. “At yours.” He shakes the man’s hand, wanting his own released as soon as Davies grips it. 

“No first name?”

“None worth mentioning, sir.” 

This time it is Davies turn to glance at the general. Washington cocks a brow, but does not force Hamilton to reveal his first name. And technically, as Washington’s aide-de-camp, Hamilton doesn’t have to, he’s a higher rank than Davies; though he imagines only half his age. 

“I apologize, gentlemen” Hamilton says softly, letting his muscles relax against the cotton, “I do believe I’ll be slipping into sleep soon.”

“Yes, of course.” Washington is always so quick to coddle him. “We’ll leave you to rest. Sir, after you,” he urges, unwilling to give up this rare occasion, where Hamilton volunteers himself to rest. 

Davies leaves the room but his presence lingers like an oppressive force. Just as Washington is about to take his leave Hamilton calls for him to stay. 

“Yes?” 

“Sir, please. Listen to me, that man is the one in the forest, the one who stabbed me,” Hamilton whisper-shouts. 

“You’re confused, perhaps you drifted in and out of consciousness and-” 

“I know what I saw, you must believe me!” 

Frustration begins to tint the boy’s voice and heat his blood. He tries to make another move only to fail once more with a hiss. The general moves to hush his injured aide back down into the sheets. Hamilton feels his weight dip onto the mattress. 

“What use would Davies have in saving you, if he were loyal to the British?” Washington lowers his voice so that it is far more alike the crashing of waves against a beach or a light rain against canvas tents than his usual thunderous roar. 

“He’s closer to you, far closer than any other redcoat has managed,” Hamilton rebuts in an equally hushed tone, feeling sleep truly come for him. “Don’t let me alone with him, _please_.”

There is just enough fear in the boy’s voice that Washington agrees without question. “Alright,” he murmurs, “but never mind that now, and focus on resting.” 

Exhaustion pulls at him, and despite this unease he finds himself forced to give in. Washington leans back a little, concern evident in his eyes, brow furrowed. Hamilton keeps his gaze on him, even as his eyes begin to slip closed. The realization hits belatedly, but it’s painful nonetheless. 

“You don’t believe me.”

The general may have responded; Hamilton hears his voice, but he can’t pick the words apart. Unconsciousness claims him again, and there, at least for now, he is safe.

* * *

Nearly two days pass before Hamilton is well enough to sit up in bed, converse without pain or weariness dragging at his ability to remain awake. He’s requested work. Washington’s refused via Laurens, tied up in meetings himself. “He says when you can get out of bed to retrieve your work yourself, then you may work,” Laurens’ tone is not as light as he’d like. The general, _and_ Laurens, are not joking. 

Hamilton, to his benefit, has the sense not to try to rise. Even shifting his weight slightly on the bed is agony. Loathe as he’d be to admit it to anyone, he probably cannot get up.

Winter is approaching. Everyone is busy, too busy for Hamilton to have company through the entire day. He is not in any danger. He is bored, and sleep is far less satisfying than it was two days ago. 

It’s late afternoon when he hears footsteps in the hall- too light to be Washington’s. They reach the door and stop. Hamilton doesn’t know why a sudden unease clings to him, but it creeps up his spine, makes the hair on his neck stand on end until the footsteps retreat. 

Hamilton wonders if the room is suddenly stuffy as he struggles to breathe normally. The quiet, he thinks, is getting to him. He hates the quiet. 

The sun has already begun to set when the door opens, the creaking sound catching Hamilton’s attention.He shifts against the wall, stiff and slumped at an awkward angle, and pain explodes from his side. He doesn’t recall falling asleep, but it must have happened. With a hiss Hamilton curls in on himself, patches of black popping across his vision. 

There’s a hand on his shoulder, strong and steady, and probably keeping him from falling out of bed. “_Breathe_, my boy. You’re all right,” Washington’s voice is close by, a presence instantly calming. 

Hamilton lifts his head as the pain fades. Washington is seated nearby, one hand still resting against his shoulder. He looks tired, but concern lingers behind his eyes. 

“Sir,” Hamilton shifts uncomfortably, “is Davies?”

Washington sighs, “I’ve told him you were not well enough to receive visitors. He understood, but-”

Hamilton’s eyes go wide, “He’s still _here_? But, sir, he attacked me, could have _killed_ me! And you-”

The general holds up a hand, effectively cutting Hamilton off, “Easy son, he explained it to me. He said when he happened upon you it couldn’t have been more than two minutes after your attacker left- your coat wasn’t bloody yet. In a situation like that, I imagine it’s easy to become confused.”

Hamilton scoffs, “_Confused_?” His temper threatens to erupt. Washington, the man he trusts more than anyone else in the world, doesn’t believe him. It hurts more than he’d ever thought something like this might. “All due respect, Your Excellency. I was there. You were not, and-”

“Stop a moment, Hamilton, and think about this,” Washington says gently, cutting him off _again_. Hamilton turns red at the indignity and barely holds his tongue. “No man in the world is foolish enough to cause a man harm and then walk into the enemy’s camp with his victim.”

Washington is right there- that part doesn’t make sense, but still, Hamilton huffs in frustration, “It was him, sir.” The general fixes him with an unreadable look, so Hamilton presses even more. “Had you ever seen him, heard of him, before he showed up in this camp?”

“There are a lot of men in the army, Hamilton.”

“Still,” Hamilton goes on, hating how desperate he sounds in his own ears. Washington _has_ to believe him. He _has_ to convince him. “I was not on a well travelled road. How did Davies know exactly where to find me?”

“Son-”

“No, _listen_. _Please_, sir. He may very well be here to target you. Why else go after me? Walking in here claiming to have rescued me. I said it before, sir. It puts him right next to you. He only needs to bide his time and wait for the perfect moment to strike.”

“_Alexander_,” Washington responds instantly, with enough force that Hamilton jumps at the sound of his own name. “Listen to yourself.” Those piercing eyes search his, but he doesn’t speak again.

Hamilton draws one more shallow breath, and speaks far more quietly than that boom of Washington’s. “And even if there is no plot here, sir,” He saves his most logical argument for last. “How would Davies have known beforehand to bring the medical supplies needed to staunch the bleeding, to an all but unknown road outside of camp, when he wasn’t intending to meet anyone until he arrived here?”

Something sparks in Washington’s eyes, much to Hamilton’s relief. “I’ll send for Davies in the morning and question him myself,” he agrees. “For tonight, I’ll post one of my guard at the door to the quarters he’s assigned to.”

Hamilton feels as though a great weight is suddenly lifted from his chest, and he only notices it now, that Washington’s hand has rested against his shoulder this whole time. He shifts awkwardly away, and the general’s hand drops into his own lap. Hamilton mutters some word of gratitude, though a ‘thank you’ is perhaps too much. It took far too much convincing to get Washington to see, and the general usually trusts him fully.

To be doubted hurts more than Hamilton can say.

“Get some rest, Alexander,” Washington says at last as he rises from the chair. “We’ll have this all sorted out by tomorrow.”

As Washington moves to the door, Hamilton allows himself to settle back into the bed and close his eyes. 

“And Alexander,” Washington calls from the door, capturing his aide’s gaze, “it is foolish indeed for a British soldier to infiltrate the camp, yes, but I assure you that to do so by harming _you_ is suicide.” 

Hamilton nods, allowing himself to be reassured by the general’s words. For the first time in days, he finds himself unconcerned about the footsteps in the hall and restful sleep finds him before pain and exhaustion.

* * *

Hamilton wakes, groggy and tired, and at first he’s not sure why. There’s a small candle lit on the table next to the bed, and through a sleepy haze he realizes he did not leave it there. He blinks, furrows his brow, and looks at the form seated next to it. Shadows streak long across the room, and shapes are hard to pick out. Hamilton squints and takes his best guess. “Sir?”

Perfect white teeth appear in the darkness, brightened by the candle. “Not sure I’d mind you calling me that.”

He freezes, breath catching in his chest. “Davies. The general said-”

“That he placed a guard on me? I’m aware,” The man leans forward in the chair, his face coming more into the light. There’s some emotion in his eyes, fixed and wanting and makes Hamilton want to run. Davies flashes a dagger in front of his eyes, shining wet. “He wasn’t a problem.”

Instinct takes over and Hamilton opens his mouth to shout for Washington, for _anyone_, but a hand clamps firm over his mouth and stifles the shout. “Trust me when I say, you do not want to scream. I’m merely here to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Hamilton bites out once the hand is removed. 

Davies ignores the pass off, shifts in his chair so he sits more comfortably. The dagger remains in his hand. He toys with it, fresh blood glinting from the blade in the candlelight. “Faucett,” he comments.

Hamilton pales, heart stuttering in his chest. He stares at Davies, barely able to contain a sudden rush of energetic terror. “What did you just say?”

A smile, “It was your mother’s name, wasn’t it? The one she was born with anyway.”

“How the _hell_ do you know that?”

“Your father left you both,” Davies continues as though he never heard the interruption. “My own did much the same. How brutal fathers can be. But it makes me curious; why did you seek out another one?”

Hamilton gawks at him in the blink it takes for him to realize what he means. “Washington is not my father. He wasn’t then, he is not now.”

Davies shrugs playfully, “Yet he calls you son. He calls you _Alexander_,” Hamilton shudders at the way his given name comes from the man’s lips. The realization comes a moment later that he did not tell Davies his name. “Hardly a basis for a professional relationship, I’d think.”

Heat rises in Hamilton’s cheeks at what Davies is insinuating. He is _not_ going to discuss this with a stranger who’s snuck into his room with a weapon in the middle of the night. “You’re about to be found out,” He says with a puffed bravado. 

Davies just smiles. He moves slowly, with purpose, but somehow Hamilton doesn’t react before fingers tightly grip his hair. Hamilton hisses as he’s jerked closer. “No, your general is about to have other things to worry about.”

He jerks Hamilton forward until he’s halfway leaning off the bed, his injured side exposed. The pain in his side comes to life, sudden flames where there had been a dull ache. With a twist of the dagger in his hand, Davies drives the hilt into the exact spot where he’d stabbed Hamilton days before. 

Something gives and tears under Hamilton’s ribs, and all the breath rushes from his lungs on a silent cry. He lists to the side and Davies catches a hand against his cheek and caresses gently with a thumb. “You’re pretty when you’re hurting. I do hope you survive this. I’d love to see you again.”

Davies lets him go and Hamilton drops through the air, his front half landing hard on the ground, his legs still tangled in the blankets of the bed. The pain is abrupt, overwhelming, all consuming. He gasps in a breath. It’s not enough, not _enough_ air. His fingers claw desperately against the floor. Across the room, he’s vaguely aware of Davies leaving the room, closing the door behind him.

Hamilton struggles. He has to get up. Get up. Arms tremble as he tries to push up. Anguish threatens to claim him right there, and Hamilton struggles to move. He needs to find help. Before it’s… before he can’t.

His stomach rebels suddenly. One moment he heaves, and the next he’s lying on the ground again, head next to a puddle of bile and blood. Hamilton stares. He’s done for, he’s sure.

Voices, not far off but miles away. Hamilton shifts and pushes far enough from the sick to avoid falling in it. He hears his name flutter from the other side of the door, and his brow furrows. Familiarity, an even tone.

Washington. It’s Washington. Hamilton coughs, and a warmth trickles down his cheeks. The general will find him. 

He waits. Washington doesn’t come, but Hamilton still hears him speaking. Why? What’s he waiting for? Doesn’t he _know_? Another cough. Blood sputters from his lips. 

On the other side of the door Washington is still speaking, quiet and even. Hamilton shifts, reaches for the chair near the bed. Agony pulses along his middle, up and down his injured side as he reaches for one of the legs. He manages to pull it, and it tilts, crashing to the floor close to his head.

And still Washington doesn’t come.

Hamilton coughs again, heaves, his throat is on fire, raw. He feels it rip. He tries to call, but no, there’s not enough air in his lungs. He tries to crawl, pull himself forward inch by inch.

All at once his strength gives out. Hamilton collapses, boneless on the ground, the last vestiges of awareness quickly spiraling away. Just before he fades away completely, he thinks he sees the door open, and a familiar pair of boots in the darkened doorway. As his eyes slip closed, Hamilton only knows that it’s too late. 


	2. you have no control

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two of the collab continues! Kay here- we're having so much fun with this experiment of 1- writing together and 2- seeing exactly how much whump and angst can fit into one story. We hope you enjoy!

“Your Excellency,” Davies greets, tipping his head respectfully. Washington draws an eyebrow upwards that verges on suspicious.

“Davies,” he replies, tone reflecting his mood, “what brings you here? Colonel Hamilton cannot take visitors yet.” 

Washington would be lying if he says he does not see Davies’ twitch at Alexander’s title. The man still manages to plaster a grin on his countenance and meets the general’s eye. His heart sinks at the reminder- Hamilton is convinced this is the man who attacked him, and yet, here he is; no one could be so foolish, right?

“Delivering rations,” Davies grits. Ah, that is not the most esteemed of tasks. “Which reminds me, the men urge a quick supply run; we’ve run low on… well everything.” 

Washington sighs. The last thing they need is the potential to face another winter with a great shortage of supplies, but Congress has yet to act to provide more.

“I had intended to send Colonel Hamilton to garner more supplies a few towns west. But now, well…” 

“That is a lot of responsibility for a boy,” Davies comments. His tone is indifferent but the general feels himself bristle all the same. 

“I’ve great faith in Hamilton’s ability, I assure you. He is remarkable in his work ethic and effectiveness, I’ve never seen a man write the way Hamilton writes. He earned himself a sponsor at seventeen, and it is a great honour of mine to take that responsibility now.”

Davies’ eyebrow quirks. “You are the boy’s benefactor?” 

“I _was_,” Washington mumbles, uncomfortable. Men had varied reactions to this admission, many believed Alexander was somehow unworthy of his position, a freeloader. Somewhere nearby he thinks he hears a scratching sound, almost like a quill on parchment. “He was very young when he first came into my service, and a mind like that should be allowed an education.”

“I see,” Davies grins. 

“Now, however, he is merely one of my staff members. The best I have, truthfully.”

A short laugh, “It’s easy to overlook the faults of our favorites.”

“Excuse me?” Washington cocks a brow and shoots Davies a dark look. Somewhere nearby in the beat of silence, he thinks he hears that distant scratching again, though it’s too late for someone to be up writing. “If you are implying something, Sergeant…”

“No, nothing of the like sir,” Davies takes half a step back, but the smug expression on his face remains. Another odd sound, dull, like something falling on the floor. Washington glances at the door to Hamilton’s room before Davies goes on. “I merely meant, Your Excellency, that I find myself surprised, and impressed that you have such an efficient aide in someone so young.”

“I find that age has very little to do when it comes to natural talent.”

“Indeed sir,” Davies nods. “You’d do well to hold onto him as long as you can, then. I should be on my way. Please, impart my best wishes to Colonel Hamilton, in hope he recovers quickly.”

With that, the man salutes, and continues on his way. Washington stares after him for a minute, until he’s sure Davies seems consumed by his work. At last he turns to Hamilton’s door and opens it quietly.

He’s expecting to find the boy asleep.

What he finds is a scene that will give him nightmares for years to come.

Hamilton is prone on the floor, just open eyes illuminated by the light of a single candle, but in such a way that for a beat Washington believes him dead. But, then the boy shifts, his head moves, barely.

Washington rushes to his side. He’s- Hamilton- there’s blood, did he tear his stitches? 

_No_, his mind supplies as he drops down, knees splashing against something that isn’t quite blood. Frantic fingers push the boy’s tunic away, _he didn’t tear his stitches._ The smell hits him full force, sick. 

Alexander’s mouth is covered in it and Washington can see it splattered next to his bed, it’s mixed with blood. His worst fears are confirmed when the tunic falls away and reveals an impossibly black bruise spreading along Hamilton’s side. 

Hamilton is in his arms in the next breath, cradled like a babe as the general desperately fights away his panic, his tears. 

Washington doesn’t even realize he’s moving until his own voice startles him in the deserted corridor. 

“Help,” he screams, voice raw, “summon a medic!” 

He passes Davies, who regards them indifferently, though his eyes flicker at Hamilton’s prone form in his arms. Washington doesn’t take a second look. There’s no time.

An aide sees and rushes away, legs a flurry of movement that are still somehow not enough. They can’t go back to that room - there’s so much blood - he’ll take Hamilton to the room adjacent to his own. He should have always been there; what was Washington _thinking?_

He puts the boy down against the sheets, waits for the doctor. The seconds bleed into eternities, some passing like a blink of an eye and others stretching into lifetimes. He paces and can’t bring himself to look at Alexander’s pale and clammy face. 

Washington can do nothing but wait. He takes the boy’s hand in one of his, squeezes painfully tight, and buries his face in his other hand. He’s not sure what good it will do, but when cold fingers twitch weakly against his own, the general closes his eyes and prays. 

When the doctor comes he’s given an excuse to leave without guilt, unable to sit there as Hamilton is so quiet, but the guilt comes anyways.

The door opens after what seems like hours and the doctor steps into the hall, wiping his hands on a dirty, stained cloth. Washington stops his pacing mid step and turns sharply toward him. He cannot bring himself to ask the doctor of Hamilton’s state, but he levels him an expectant look.

“I’ve done all I can, Your Excellency,” The doctor reports. There’s some hesitation to his tone. “Colonel Hamilton’s survival is in his and the Almighty’s hands now. The bleeding is on the inside, nothing can really be done. It may stop on its own, but.. "

The doctor trails off. It's not necessary to explain. Washington has seen men crushed by horses with the same dark bruises Hamilton has under their skin. He's seen them die in agony, drowning from the inside.

"I've given him as much laudanum as I dare, sir," the doctor adds quietly. ”It will hold off the worst of the pain, and should he… apologies, Your Excellency, but it would make his last hours much easier on him."

Washington’s heart shutters. And then it goes wild. He can’t hear anything past the pounding in the ears and his own internal mantra of _no no no no no._

The doctor is still talking. Washington should be listening but he can’t. He can’t listen to him talk about relief, and rest, and pain, and _death._

Hamilton was getting _better_. Why- _why_ is this happening now? “He was recovering,” Washington blurts out, interrupting the doctor mid-sentence. The man blinks at him, and the general quickly realizes he has lost much of his control over his typically stoic presence. “He was able to sit and speak. What changed?”

“It may have been there from the original injury, sir,” the doctor responds. Something in his tone makes Washington think he’s already said this, but Washington was not listening. “The bleeding can happen slowly. However, the more likely cause is he fell and aggravated the injury, or he was struck with something.” The doctor shakes his head. “My apologies. Colonel Hamilton- he’s a good man.”

A good man indeed- still a boy. Whose right is it to take him away? God’s? God hasn’t been merciful to him before, why should He start now? 

Before he can further blaspheme Washington pulls himself away from his thoughts to shake the doctor’s hand. 

He’s given a bottle. Laudanum. In case he does survive the night. In case, because the more merciful outcome is he slips away in his sleep. 

Washington hesitates as he reaches for the door, just for a moment, wishing this could stay a far off reality as long as he’s out here. But it’s not, Hamilton is dying no matter where he is, so he rather he’s with the boy. 

The night turns into the first lights of dawn and Hamilton still lives. He doesn’t so much as stir, but he breathes, shallow and slow thanks to the laudanum. Sometime early in the night Washington lifted the boy’s shirt so to better observe the bruising along his side, engulfing him like a dark cloud. 

Washington doesn’t dare touch the injury, mottled skin stark against the already scarring original wound. It’s gruesome, as is the boy’s overall state. His skin is deathly pale, lips dry and chapped. Hamilton’s eyes are closed, the skin underneath dark and bruised like his side. Horrible as it is, the general has memorized every detail.

Hamilton doesn’t move, doesn’t twitch. The only proof he lives is the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

A single knock at the door breaks the painful silence. For a moment, Washington wants only to order whoever is intending to intrude away, but then, he swallows, squares his shoulders. This is his army, and he still must command. He draws a breath and utters a quick, clipped, “Come.”

It’s Laurens. Of course it is, because knowing Hamilton’s current state none of the other aides would risk an encounter with Washington just now. Laurens, however, lingered outside the room after the doctor left until Washington assured him he’d send for him if there were any change.

“Your Excellency,” He greets, sounding as tired as Washington feels.

“Nothing has changed since the evening,” Washington says with barely a glance upward. “He’s much the same.”

Laurens makes a disappointed sound and moves a little closer. “That’s not why I’m here, sir.”

Washington sits back to better meet the young man’s gaze, “What is it then?”

“One of your guard was found dead the morning, outside one of the cabins. We spoke to all of the men inside, and all were accounted for, save one.”

He feels his blood instantly begin to boil. “Samuel Davies.”

Laurens nods, “Yes, sir.”

Washington all at once wants to rip the room apart. It all makes sense now, doesn’t it? He hurt Hamilton, got into camp, and then hurt him again. Or he was struck, the doctor had said. And Washington had seen him there, not ten feet from Hamilton’s room, chatted while Alexander struggled to the door. A distraction to gather his information, and Washington just let him linger about, questioned nothing.

He remembers an odd look in the man’s eyes as he’d raced down the hall with Hamilton limp in his arms. 

Hamilton _told_ him Davies attacked him. That he shouldn’t have been allowed to stay in camp, and he hadn’t listened. Hamilton had had to beg him to be believed and in the meantime he’d allowed that man to sow so much chaos and pain, and hurt the one boy he’d been determined to protect. 

Washington lowers his head for a minute, hands curling into the blankets. Slowly, he takes in a breath. “Find him.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Laurens moves quickly from the room.

The entire camp is searched, but Davies is nowhere to be found. Long gone. 

He’d left as soon as he saw his work in action, Washington’s sure. What more needed to be done?

…

Days pass, and Hamilton’s state is stagnant. The doctor had once forced water down the boy’s throat, Washington would gladly never hear those choked noises leave Hamilton again. 

And yet still, he sleeps. 

Davies is out there, vanished without a trace. Washington wants him found, he wants nothing more than to look the bastard in his eye and order his hanging. 

He wants to see him die. He wants to know he enacted justice. He wants… he wants-

He wants Hamilton to be okay. 

His throat has healed a bit. It was ripped to pieces right after it happened, the coma, in a way, had accelerated its healing. That’s truly the only benefit of Hamilton’s extended rest. 

The boy’s chest is now speckled with dark purple amongst the black, it looks no less painful but is an improvement from the solid black cloud which had looked so evil before. It’s a good sign, the doctor assures him, it means the bleeding has stopped and begun to heal. 

He teaches Washington how to administer laudanum, for the pain will be overwhelming and this is all he can do to alleviate it. 

...

Washington imagined what it would be like, the moment when Hamilton woke up. It was nothing like this. 

This is pure pain, with no hope for comfort. Hamilton’s eyes open and he’s immediately overcome by the agony of his wounds. His pupils dilate, tears begin to fall, he tries to writhe but cannot due to the pain lancing its way through blood and muscle and bone and soul. 

Washington’s relief at seeing his boy conscious and aware immediately turns to dismay as he realizes how aware Hamilton is. 

Soothing him does nothing, and he can’t have more laudanum for at least another hour. It’s Hell, pure and simple.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Washington whispers brokenly. This is his fault. If he’d protected Hamilton from Davies, like he’d asked, the boy wouldn’t be going through this right now. “I’m so sorry, Alexander. Just hold on. Please, son, you’re so strong.” 

At some point in his struggles Alexander desperately clasps Washington’s hand with his own. His grip is bone-breaking, but Washington would gladly allow him to crush his fingers if it brought him any semblance of relief.

It’s the longest hour of Washington’s life. When he’s finally able to administer the laudanum Hamilton’s subdued wails die into whimpers, his muscles relax. It’s a blessed relief for them both. 

Then, and only then, when Alexander is drifting and no longer in excruciating pain, does Washington allow himself to feel his first pang of hope, maybe even joy. 

It’s hard to tell from what seemed like an hour long torture session, but maybe Hamilton will be okay. 

He strokes through the boy’s hair, remembering how it relaxed his foolish aide when he’d taken ill the previous winter. Hamilton is still half-awake, but after an hour like the one he’s just had he’s definitely edging more towards sleep.

He’s angry, Washington knows he is, and he has every right to be. But he still trusts him enough to take his hand, even now, and allow the general to offer him comfort. That hand is his lifeline, an assurance that all is not broken between himself and his dear aide with a penchant for attracting trouble. 

Hamilton’s half-lidded eyes find him, but there’s no smile anymore. He’s exhausted, confused, angry. He needs rest. 

“I’ll be here when you wake, son,” Washington murmurs, “you can go back to sleep.”

Hamilton forces his mouth open, croaks like he’s trying to speak. Washington continues his carding of the boy’s hair, grinning in as reassuring of a way as he can at the moment. 

“Not yet, my boy. Your throat needs time to heal,” He remembers the puddles of sick, mixed with blood and Washington almost cannot continue. “When you wake I’ll fetch a parchment and paper, and we can talk.”

Something flickers behind Alexander’s gaze, but he concedes, relaxing into Washington’s grip and closing his eyes.

He doesn’t wake again for six hours. 

…

Hamilton, despite popular opinion, knows how foolishly stubborn he can be at times. It doesn’t necessarily stop him, because the vast majority of times he’s being stubborn for a good reason. 

His words had always been his weapon of choice, both spoken and written. He’d been disarmed by Davies and that is unacceptable. So yes, he was anxious to regain his speech. 

Washington, ever true to his word, brought him the promised parchment and quill, but communicating through that means is so tiresome. It makes conversation disjointed and fragmented, with long pauses needed for his sake. He pretends not to see the quill shaking between his fingers and the unsteady lines on the page.

He wants to speak again. He has quite a few things needing to be said, thank you very much. 

And the general is near never gone from his room, if not his side, either. He must be desperate for conversation as well. A full week’s gone by, and the time Washington has been out of sight totals less than an hour.

Other men might enjoy having a companion through recovery, but it is beginning to wear on Hamilton. Were he not a general, one might suspect Washington would make a fine nursemaid. Washington brings another blanket from a trunk, saying he looks cold. Hamilton shakes his head. “Fine,” he rasps.

Washington lays the blanket over his feet. He looks back at the boy, a thoughtful expression behind his eyes, “Do you need more water?”

Hamilton shakes his head. This is becoming a routine. “No,” he manages. The thought of drinking anything, even cool water makes him wince. He must be instantly reminded of the state of his throat. 

“The doctor’s said you shouldn’t try to speak, son,” Washington settles back in the chair next to the bed. “You don’t want to cause yourself any more trouble recovering.You have the paper there,” He points at the few pieces of scrap parchment next to Hamilton on the bed.

Hamilton furrows his brow and scribbles on the top page.

_Too slow._

Washington glances at him suspiciously, “I’ve seen you write faster than any man alive.”

There’s an almost sad smirk in response.

_There’s a difference when I have to write my own words instead of yours._

Washington almost smiles in response, and the two lapse into a short silence. Hamilton looks thoughtful for a moment. He picks up another piece of paper and writes.

_None of this is your fault, you know. I don’t blame you._

A beat. Washington thinks he feels his heart stop. He stares at Hamilton- this boy he’s failed twice now, who wouldn’t be here, drugged and fighting off waves of agony if he’d just believed him in the first place. Hamilton cocks his head when Washington doesn’t respond.

“Sir?”

“Don’t talk,” Washington responds without hesitation.

Hamilton nudges him, and then underlines the last sentence he wrote while those intense dark eyes fix on his. The boy is clearly waiting for a response. He falls asleep waiting. 

Once he’s sure Hamilton is asleep, Washington takes the parchment and tosses it in the fireplace across the room. He watches as the flames instantly take hold of the paper, warping it and leaving only a pair of words visible before they too are consumed by the flame.

_blame you_

... 

Laurens of course doesn’t complain, that he’s the one even higher ranking men send to report to Washington. Were the general able to distance himself, concentrate at all on anything beyond Hamilton’s state, he might be annoyed that even some of his generals use Laurens as a shield to bear bad news.

This afternoon Laurens looks angry as he enters the room. Hamilton is half awake and rolls his head towards the door as Washington stands.

“Sir,” Laurens salutes. He looks toward Hamilton, and his expression softens, if only for a moment. He turns back to Washington, “I- perhaps, if we discussed outside, if-”

Hamilton interrupts with a wordless croak and shakes his head a bit. No need to leave on his account.

“What is it?” Washington questions from the other side of the bed. He knows something, something is wrong, based on Laurens’ expression. “Something’s happened.”

“Yes. A pair of scouts just reported in from a mission a few miles north,” Laurens begins. Washington notices Hamilton’s brow furrow as he listens. “Several homes were attacked, burned just outside the town. A soldier and five civilians were killed.” He pauses. “Two were children.”

It’s not the time of year for a British advance, so Washington draws a sharp breath and closes his eyes a moment. “How’d it happen? Who?”

Laurens hesitates a moment, “Some survivors reported a small group of strangers in the area. One of them gave a name before they started burning buildings.”

Washington holds his breath for an instant, but he knows the man responsible. “Davies.”

“It seems so, sir.”

An inferno builds in Washington’s chest, but his voice, with some effort, remains almost too quiet for the situation, “Where did they go?”

“Apparently due east, some hours ago.”

He nods, knowing what needs to be done. Washington looks toward the bed, Hamilton’s attention has shifted to him, tired eyes wavering with concern. He leans forward, grasps the boy’s hand, and gives a gentle squeeze. “I’ll return shortly, my boy. We must discuss a response to this.”

They can catch Davies, bring him back here. Calm as he forces himself to appear from the outside, sad as he is for the pointless loss of civilian life, Washington allows himself the selfish indulgence; he wants to see Davies hang for what he did to Alexander.

Hamilton’s eyes go wide and he clumsily reaches to grasp at Washington’s sleeve. The general lets his hand cling for a minute before gently pulling free and resting a hand on the boy’s brow. “I promise you, I won’t be long.”

The boy exhales some indeterminate sound, but it’s too warped to be an actual word. Washington straightens from the bed, and Laurens follows him from the room.

"Scouts said Davies has five or six men with him," Once they reach the workroom Laurens hands Washington a hastily scribbled report recently delivered for the man to read himself. "Twelve men on horseback should be plenty to deal with him."

Washington stares at the parchment. He doesn't truly read it, but at Laurens' suggestion he looks up, and drops it to the desk.

"Send thirty."

Laurens' eyebrows go up. "Sir, it's a bit much, isn't it?" He asks the question, but Washington is positive that he wants Davies captured just as much.

So Washington doesn't answer. He turns, and heads back to his quarters. Back to Hamilton. 

“Sir,” Laurens calls after him. “Allow me to accompany them. I can-”

“No.”

“But, sir, I-”

"Alert me when the men return with Davies."

It’s overkill, certainly, to send thirty men to capture one fugitive, but Washington orders it anyway. He will not let Davies escape.

Not this time. 

Hamilton’s eyes are wide and scared when he reenters his room. There’s something terribly urgent about them, something he could only convey with the words that have been so cruelly taken from him. 

He waves Washington toward the bed, and a blink later starts to scribble something on the parchment in his lap.

_You sent men to capture him?_

Washington glances at the strained writing and nods, “Thirty.”

Hamilton pales and momentarily loses the grip on his quill. “Don’t,” He barely whispers, fixing Washington with a desperate look. “Can’t.”

“He killed civilians, Hamilton,” Washington responds, barely containing the growl deep in his throat, “He nearly killed you twice. You expect me to let him walk away?”

Hamilton furiously shakes his head. He winces as it jars the rest of him before gripping the pen again.

_He’s playing with you- he knows you’re emotional about this and-_

Washington reaches forward and lifts Hamilton’s hand from the page, gives his fingers a gentle, insistent squeeze, “I _know_ what I am doing, my boy. Davies and his men will be outnumbered nearly five to one. If they know what’s good for them they’ll surrender before a shot is fired.”

Hamilton fixes him with that frightened look again, “Trap,” He breathes. “He knows-” a round of coughing steals the weak words away, so Hamilton writes again.

_This is exactly what he wants. He expects you to do this._

“If he wishes to die in the Pennsylvania woods, then so be it.”

_Call the men back. Please. This is a mistake._

Washington reaches to grasp his arm, steady the increasingly distraught boy. “Davies cannot be allowed to continue to bring terror and death wherever he sees fit. You won’t need to see him when he returns and-”

Hamilton wrenches himself away from the general’s grip and almost topples over. Parchment and quill fly to the floor with the momentum. He catches himself before falling out of bed completely, and jerks his head back to Washington.

_"Listen to me!"_

It's not as much a shout as Hamilton might manage if he were healthy, but it's loud enough that Washington stops speaking and stares at him. The boy's eyes water and his fingers curl against his throat. He opens his mouth to speak again, but the words are lost, dissolving into painful coughs. 

Washington feels a rush of guilt having left the room to make this decision, but he did what was necessary. The men will be back within hours, and then they can discuss this in more detail. 

"You should rest," Washington breaks the tense silence and reaches for the boy's hand. Mid-cough, Hamilton jerks away and curls in on himself. 

Clearly the boy is hurting, but when Washington reaches for him again Hamilton shifts out of reach and wheezes a strained, _“No.”_

The general feels his chest tighten as he slowly rises from his chair. He feels he should say something to Hamilton, but the boy is curled onto his uninjured side, hair loose, hanging in his face as he struggles to get his breath back. With that pathetic image ingrained in his mind, Washington leaves the room without a word.

It feels strange to work in his own office now, having spent days, weeks working out of his private quarters so he could remain with Hamilton. He settles at the desk, a bit surprised to find documents he left there weeks ago, untouched in the chaos since. His aides have kept Congress apprised of the situation, but Washington has yet to write them in his own hand. He can do so now without interruption, explain the whole thing, and how it is about to end.

He works for some hours, takes a little bit of time to respond to personal correspondence; replies to a letter from Lafayette in France, that glosses over the situation. No need to worry him without reason.

The candle is burning low when there’s a knock at the door, and Laurens appears once again. Washington glances up from his own work, but the greeting sticks in his throat when he sees the drawn expression on the young man’s face. Even with the poor lighting he can tell his face is pale.

“What’s happened?” Washington rises quickly from his seat, papers on the desk ruffling with the movement. Ice grips at his chest, and for a moment he’s not sure he can suck in any air.

Laurens clutches a piece of paper in his hand. He doesn’t meet Washington’s eye as he crosses the room and hands it over. The general though, quickly drops it to the desk, slams his hand down on the wood. Laurens does not cower easily, but he jumps at the sound.

_“Tell me!”_

“Davies had men, dozens, waiting in the woods, in the trees. Seems his men figured out how to mimic our own and hide in plain sight,” Laurens’ gaze is fixed on the ground. “Our men were fired on, scattered through the woods, and in the chaos-”

“How many dead, Laurens?”

There’s no answer, but Laurens finally looks at him, clearly struggling for words.

“How many?”

He shakes his head. “All of them, sir. They’re all dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to find us on our tumblrs for more Hamilton work and angst!
> 
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> 
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	3. what i'd wish i'd known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reeling with the news of the ambush, both Hamilton and Washington try and come to terms with what's happened. But their ordeal isn't over yet...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Look at us, we're actually keeping a pretty good schedule with this story aren't we? *hides nervously behind rock because Look hasn't been updated in a while* Well ANYWAYS we really hope you enjoy this chapter, and if you want to see more, all you have to do is leave us a comment after you're finished :)

Laurens doesn’t want to risk the general’s foul mood, and someone has to tell Hamilton what's happened. So he makes his way down the hall, suddenly aware of just how exhausted he is. He pauses only for a moment when he reaches the door.

"Alexander will want to know," he'd told the general. 

A moment of silence lapsed before Washington breathed out, “Leave me." He didn't rise from his seat, so Laurens stepped out. 

He opens the door quietly, but Hamilton is awake, lying in the middle of the bed. A few pieces of parchment lay scattered nearby on the floor. There’s an odd glaze to his eyes, some medication or other from the doctor lingering in his system.

Whatever thoughts consume Hamilton must shift when he sees Laurens, as his expression lightens a bit. Laurens wishes his could. 

"John," he rasps. His voice sounds worse than it did a day ago. Hamilton seems to know he can't manage any more words so he reaches for one of the remaining scraps of parchment. 

_ Did the General send you to keep an eye on me while he waits for news? _

Laurens presses his lips into a grim line and slowly sits in the general's abandoned chair. Hamilton's brow furrows; his shoulders go tense. "W'happened?"

“The… the group of men sent to capture Davies,” he begins, watching as Hamilton’s face begins to collapse, “they were expected, ambushed by dozens of redcoats… Davies’ men.” 

Hamilton feels his heart beat against his broken chest, thundering for freedom and pounding inside his ears. 

_ How many dead? _

Laurens hesitates, he swallows. “All thirty of them, Alexander,” he finally whispers. “No survivors.”

No. No, no, no, no. This can’t be happening- Davies he- dear God  _ no _ . All those men, their wives, their children… They were  _ gone _ . And, and it’s because of  _ him _ . Davies knew that Washington would be emotional, not thinking straight, and, and he  _ used him. _ All those men… It was because of him, him, HIM. No, no, no, no. 

“Hamilton-” Laurens’ voice filters through his anguish, steadily coaxing him back to awareness. His friend has clasped his shoulder and arm, not wanting to risk giving his injured self a shake. “ _ Alexander _ , you need to breathe. Breathe - if you choke or gag you’ll tear your throat again - that’s it, in and out, in and out, come back from wherever you went. That’s it, just breathe.” 

Oh Laurens, if only you knew how hard that was right now. 

But he eventually gets there, his lungs take in air and his heart stops pounding into his ears like the roar of war drums. There are tears streaming down his cheeks, he realizes belatedly. In another moment he might blame the coughing, but Laurens says nothing about it, so neither does he.

“W’shingt’n,” he chokes. “I wan’ W’shingt’n.” 

“Alexander the general is-”

“I nee’ him.” 

“I know, just- here, have a sip of water, that’s it. He’s trying to deal with this right now too.” Laurens leans back into the chair, a place in the back of his mind glad that Hamilton’s throat had healed to the point where he could take liquids with no pain. “You can talk with him later.”

_ Not later. Now.  _

John sighs and runs both hands over his face, his own grief threatening to overtake him. “Please Hamilton,” he breathes, “can we just- let’s sit for a moment. I need to write to my father eventually, as well, I suppose.” 

Hamilton’s eyes go wide, his quill frantically scribbling on the page. 

_ Washington should not bear the blame alone. He didn’t mean to. Davies tricked him.  _

Laurens’ brow furrows before realization strikes his eyes. “I won’t condemn Washington’s actions, considering I rather understand them. My father, Congress, they need to know what happened but I assure you, Washington shall not fall under bad light by my hand.” 

_ That does not mean the Continental Congress will agree.  _

“No, I suppose it doesn’t, but there’s nothing to be done for that now.” 

Hamilton closes his eyes, leans back against his pillows. He just wants this nightmare to be  _ over _ . He understands Davies’ every action, but God he wishes he didn’t. Distract the general, cause dysfunction, sow doubt and anger, classic strategy; divide and conquer. 

Swoop in for the kill when they’re all distracted.

“Davies wan’s,” he’s cut off by another round of coughing. Laurens ushers the water into his grip once more, hands hovering as he sips like he’s not sure he can handle it. 

“I think the best thing to do for the very moment is rest,” Laurens sighs, closing his eyes like he wants to do nothing but sleep. He probably does. “And I shall send a messenger to Congress- my father, oh they’re one and the same, aren't they?” 

Hamilton tries to grin at him but it falls flat. The news weighs too heavily on his soul. And Laurens and he had discussed Laurens’ father in length in the past, he is not the most forgiving of men. 

“An-”

“Yes, and I shall tell General Washington you wish him to see you.” 

Hamilton can’t resist a small grin at that, how Laurens seems to grin indulgently himself. He tips his head as his friend departs, barely catching the sadness in Laurens’ countenance as he returns the gesture. 

The smile fades. 

* * *

A sense of foreboding washes over Laurens right before he pushes Washington’s office door open. Something is not right, and he can feel it. 

Ever persistent, he forges on, hoping he’d not meet the general’s famous temper. What he sees instead is so much worse. 

Washington isn’t even looking at him, he’s looking  _ towards _ him, but he’s so very clearly not seeing or comprehending his surroundings. He’s exactly where Laurens left him, almost looking slumped against his desk, and were it not for the decanter now decorating his desk John might’ve thought he hadn’t moved at all in this hour or so. 

The decanter, which had been full upon his last exit, is now nearly empty.

The worst sight of them all however, is the general himself. Washington’s drawn and pale, his eyes sporting a haunted glaze and shoulders sagging under the weight of their burden. While his features seem expressionless Laurens knows this is the picture of guilt; he imagines Hamilton would see even further into it than he could. 

“Sir?” He makes his presence known, taking a few steps further into the doorway. 

Washington sees him then, and he is so far into his sorrow he cannot even mask his resignation. 

“What have you told your father?” His voice has no hope left, it stops Laurens in his tracks. 

The general, like Hamilton had, expects him to write his father with all the condemnation and blame in his heart poured towards Washington. The general, who he would follow into the most hopeless of battles, and kill for without a moment’s hesitation. 

“I haven’t sent the letter yet, but I told him I’d have taken the same actions, were I in your place,” he murmurs, approaching more bravely now and lifting the alcohol’s lid back into its position. “Alexander asked for you.”

“Tell him I’m otherwise occupied, I cannot see him now.” 

“I did not hide the truth from him, he will need you.” Laurens makes to take the whisky back to its place in Washington’s liquor cabinet, but releases the crystal when a sharp grip snatches at his wrist and Washington shoots him a dark glare. Taking a shaking breath he backs off, continuing his thought. “You’ve not been absent from his side for weeks, he will not believe-”

“Then he’ll surely believe I am otherwise occupied.”

Laurens stares at him in silence for a moment, startled by disbelief that the general is asking him to  _ lie _ to Hamilton on his behalf.

He’s never lied to Hamilton in the entire expanse of their friendship. 

“Sir?”

“Why didn’t I  _ listen to him _ , John?” Oh. Oh dear, Laurens does not want to have this conversation. 

“I can understand why, Sir, he- Alexander was in so much pain, and it was because of  _ him _ .”

“I am the Commander-in-Chief to this army, I have been leading men for over twenty years, I should have been able to look past my own emotions, I should have  _ seen _ it.” 

“Your Excellency, Hamilton has been dealing with sadistic men since he was a child; he knows the way they think because it was the only way for him to survive. You cannot fault yourself for not having the same instincts.”

Washington barks a sardonic laugh, “Can’t I?” He pours himself another glass, mockingly cheersing Laurens. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been responsible for a massacre, you know.” 

All the sadness of the world hangs like an aura around Washington’s figure, he’s guilty, and lost, and devastated, and more than a little drunk. It’s horrible. Laurens hasn’t even met Davies and he hates him all the more for it.

“Alexander needs you,” he tries again. “He’s angry and scared, and-”

“I will attend him in my own time,” Washington finally snaps. “Do you think he’d take kindly to me or my state right now? No, tell him I am busy.”

“Sir, surely-” Washington slams his fist against the table, cutting off Laurens’ sentence. The aide jumps backwards, putting space between himself and Washington. 

“I was not  _ asking _ , Laurens; tell Hamilton I’m busy. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes sir,” he breathes hastily. But he doesn’t move to leave, not yet. Washington’s behaviour scares him a bit, and not in a threatening way, in a worrying way. “Your Excellency-”

Washington explodes. He shoves himself away from the desk with another bang and advances on his startled aide. “Christ’s sake Laurens,” he thunders, snatching the aide’s arm and dragging him towards the door. “When I give you an order, follow it!” Laurens feels himself be all but thrown from the office, having to stumble a bit to regain his balance. 

The office door slams a moment later. 

* * *

It’s a struggle to stay awake, but Hamilton refuses to allow his resolve to waver- he will remain awake until he can speak to the general. He’s given himself half of the doctor’s recommended dosage of laudanum- the pain creeping along his side is too much to bear without it, but he doesn’t want to lose so much time in that haze where he recalls almost nothing. 

When the door opens this time he is almost surprised- because it’s not Laurens he’s expecting again. He moves carefully, pushes himself up on one elbow. 

“Where is he?” Hamilton asks; his voice is barely there. 

“He’s,” Laurens pauses before closing the door. He sighs, and turns slowly back to Hamilton, “He’s busy right now, Alexander.”

An instant rush of heat floods through him, “Busy?” He restrains the push of anger, coughs once and quickly writes on a fresh piece of parchment. He tries not to think about how strange his writing looks.

_ He was too busy to see me for a moment? _

Laurens nods. There’s something about his expression- it’s strained and unfamiliar and Hamilton hates that he’s unable to fully understand it with the laudanum making his head fog. 

“He needs a few hours to rest,” Laurens says at last.

Disbelief strikes Hamilton in the chest and he shakes his head, “ _ Need _ t’see ‘im.”

“Alexander,” Laurens looks stiff and uncomfortable, but Hamilton fixes his attention on him anyway. “He can’t.”

A few seconds of silence pass and Hamilton shifts closer to Laurens. His side twinges with a sharp pain despite the medicine, so rather than sit up, he reaches forward and grasps at Laurens’ coat. “Try again.”

Laurens doesn’t move. “No.”

“S’he hiding from me?” Hamilton doesn’t release his grip on Laurens’ coat. There are reasons this could be- the most looming being that Hamilton  _ tried _ to warn what would happen. Could it be possible that Washington is afraid to face him?

“ _ No _ , that’s not it. He needs-”

“What?”

“A reprieve, Alexander,” Laurens says a little too quickly. “He had to make a difficult decision in a stressful situation. He’s not left your side in over a week and every man needs a bit of time, especially with conditions as they are.”

Hamilton gawks at him, hisses like he’s been stung. “ _ My _ fault?”

“No, not at all,” Laurens’ eyes go wide at the accusation. “I’m only saying he’s had no time to himself to-”

_ “What?” _

“Recover himself,” Laurens stares at him. “Surely you don’t think he’s making a show of avoiding you now because of what’s happened.”

Hamilton narrows his eyes, and for a beat he’s not certain what to think. The general must feel the loss of these men as much as any of them do, moreso, but he also cannot be seen to blame himself for it. He shakes his head and vaguely realizes there are tears trailing down his cheeks. He tries hard to blink them away, but the ability seems out of his control for the second time this evening.

“I need him. Now. He has to- tell him-”

“I’m not playing messenger any more today,” Laurens huffs out. He steps back just enough that Hamilton loses the weak grip on his coat. 

“Note, then,” Hamilton glowers, and begins to write quickly on a fresh scrap of parchment. 

_ “No,  _ Alexander,” Laurens cuts him off with an almost startling finality and lifts his hand from the page, like the general did earlier. “ _ You _ need rest. The general needs rest. If you could stop being so stubborn about this for one minute about how this affects you, you might realize a world exists outside your influence.”

Hamilton feels his heart stutter. Whether Laurens means it or not the words strike hard, and for a moment he can’t find the words for speech or writing.

“Hamilton,” Laurens breaks the uneasy silence, “I’m…”

“Get out,” Hamilton rasps , settling back against the bed. He can’t roll away from Laurens, onto his injured side, but he turns his head away. 

“C’mon, Alex, I-”

“Go.”

* * *

It’s not until he reaches the workroom again that Laurens realizes how worn out he is, having passed back and forth through the house almost all night. A quick glance down the hall tells him that the general is still shut in his office- hardly a surprise. He knows better than to set foot there again tonight.

He glances at a stack of bound letters ready to leave with the next courier, all orders for this or that commander that have somehow come together despite the recent chaos. The other aides have put in just as much work as he has, struggling to keep orders, supply requests, and other communications flowing smoothly. Laurens can add one more to that stack. With a tired sigh he settles into his usual seat. He lights a pair of candles nearby and begins to write. 

As he promised Hamilton, Laurens writes his father and defends Washington- not that he needs to be told to defend his general. He understands- he truly does, and had it been his decision he would have ridden out with those men to capture Davies. It’s almost a point of embarrassment that he was forbidden to accompany them. 

_ Be vigilant, this man Davies seems clever and dangerous and I fear if he was able to worm his way here and sow such confusion, he may be in a position to do the same anywhere. _

Laurens pauses and lifts his quill. It’s dangerous to explicitly warn Congress of a threat that may not even be real, and he hesitates. When he lifts the quill again, it’s just to add one more line before he signs his name.

_ The men of the Continental Congress would do well to exercise caution until this situation is resolved. _

He seals the letter just as the front door opens and a messenger steps inside, a near empty bag slung over his shoulder. The timing is perfect, enough so that Laurens almost allows himself to be amused at the fact that something, at least, has gone right tonight. He rises from his seat and hands the courier the stack of letters, slipping his just completed one on top. 

The messenger cocks his head. “Seems a bit light on the letters lately,” He comments, thumbing through the letters to count them before he slips them into his bag. 

“General Washington has been,” Laurens pauses. An enlisted man does not need to hear the entirety of what’s taken place inside these walls over the last week or more. Letting out any news of weakness is dangerous to their cause from threats both inside and out, and Laurens is not a fool. “He’s been occupied.”

“What about Colonel Hamilton?”

Of course- all of the couriers in and out of headquarters know Hamilton. He’s typically awake at any hour, day or night, to hand off or recieve missives. 

“He’s been ill,” Laurens replies, and it’s a little more strained. 

A flicker of disappointment appears in the courier’s eyes when Laurens fails to provide more detail. He adjusts the strap of his bag over his shoulder, careful to avoid his braid. “Well then,” He says, offering Laurens a tired salute before he moves back to the door. “I hope whatever trials they’re facing pass quickly and with ease. Give my best to the general, and to Colonel Hamilton.”

He exits quickly and Laurens hears a horse race away. 

There’s nothing left for him to do right now. He will not disturb Washington again, and Hamilton needs to rest and calm himself before they attempt another conversation. Laurens heads up the stairs to the room most of the aides share, and as he goes, he realizes he forgot to ask the courier his name. He can’t pass on a greeting without knowing who the man was. 

He pauses for a moment on the top step and glances back down. But the man must be too far off to catch by now, so Laurens will have to ask the next time they meet.

* * *

It’s late when Hamilton hears his door open again; not so late that it’s vaguely threatening, but late enough that it’s odd anyone would make a social call. Almost no one had been in his rooms this late, except-

“Sir?” 

Washington’s features come into focus, flickering in the candlelight. There’s something about him that Hamilton had never seen before, something that’s just  _ wrong _ . 

“Sir?” He asks again, barely masked worry tinging his tone. “Is something-”

“Alexander,” Washington finally cuts through him, “we need to talk, I need to apologize for a great many things.” 

He takes a few more steps into the doorways, illuminates the entirety of his self in the light and sighs. 

“Laurens said you’d not be coming,” Hamilton replies, just a hint of accusation in his too scratchy voice, “that you needed time-”

“I took the time I needed, rest assured.” 

A few more steps and that’s when it hits Hamiton, what’s so wrong with the general. 

“Were you  _ drinking _ ?” It is a breathless whisper that is filled with unconcealed accusation and perhaps even betrayal. It suddenly makes a great deal of sense as to why Laurens insisted that Washington could not see him.

He doesn’t need an answer, he already has one; he can smell it on Washington - it is just as strong and pungent as he remembers the drunkards being on Nevis. 

Washington doesn’t drink. In the time Hamilton had been in his service he’d never once seen the general inebriated. He supposes that is still true, since it’s obvious that Washington is not drunk but rather had been drunk, but that only solidifies the fact that when Hamilton had asked for him he’d been with his spirits instead. 

Washington looks ashamed but for now Hamilton cannot care. He’s angry; he shouldn’t blame the general, he knows. In fact, in a few hours’ time he’s sure that he will be quite worried about this uncharacteristic indulgence of Washington’s, but for now all he can manage is anger. 

“Alexander,” Washington tries, looking crestfallen. 

“I’m tired,” Hamilton blurts, unable to hide the annoyance and betrayal in his eyes. He shifts, not intentionally, away from the general. “I want to sleep now.” 

“It’ll just be a few minutes, my boy…” 

“No.” Hamilton feels the beginnings of guilt fill his stomach, but then the anger resurges with a vengeance and replaces it. “No, we can talk in the morning. Perhaps then you will not smell of a tavern.” 

The general crumples even further, but he nods. “I’ll be here in the morning then,” he mutters weakly. “Sleep well Alexander.” 

The door closes behind him with a definitive  _ thud _ , and Hamilton is left utterly alone again. It’s no better than it was before. 

Once more he curses the damned wound in his side, for he cannot even shift himself to grab a pillow and scream his frustration into it. 

* * *

Hamilton wakes to pitch blackness and a stifling discomfort. Through a sleepy fog he realizes there’s a hand clamped over his mouth. The startled sound he tries to let out is muffled completely. Fingers squeeze tight against his cheeks, and even when he raises both hands to try to pry away the one covering his mouth there is no give.

His breaths come in harsh, erratic little gasps from his nose, as the grip is so tight he’s unable to even breathe through his mouth. He’s certain his captor can feel them but it is the least of his worries at the moment. He paws madly at the vice before the man’s other hand reaches and catches his wrists in an equally unrelenting grasp. 

His eyes focus, and he finally sees his captor’s face. That it is Davies is not as shocking as it should be - there is only one man who’d do this - as it is appallingly frightening. 

How did he get in here? After everything that’s happened how could he possibly get this close to him again? What was he going to  _ do _ to him now? 

“Calm down, pet,” the older man hushes, leaning so close that Hamilton can feel his breath against his face. “Just relax and behave for me. We both know that screaming will hurt  _ you _ far more than it inconveniences  _ me _ . Washington’s gone to clear his head - I imagine it’s quite necessary, seeing the amount of alcohol he consumed - so I’m going to take my hand away, but I assure you, if you scream I’ll make sure you regret it.”

The hand tears away from Hamilton’s mouth and he takes shuddering gulps of air, hardly daring to look up at Davies.  _ This is the final act _ , he realizes,  _ Davies is going to end it now _ . 

It is perhaps too optimistic to hope that his only plan is to kill him; it would be horrifying for the general to find, but Hamilton knows there are worse things - Davies does too, he suspects.

“I’ve got something for you,” Davies says, releasing his wrists when Hamilton doesn’t immediately try and fight him. 

“I want nothing from you,” Hamilton replies, doing his God-forsaken best to push himself away from Davies and across the bed. It’s agony but he makes a bit of progress. 

Davies grabs his legs and pulls him back, till Alexander is half on his bed and half off, upper body laying flat against the sheets and screaming with pain. He presses close and clutches Hamilton’s jaw. His thumb brushes over the boy’s lips, pressing at them teasingly. 

Hamilton’s eyes widen and his breath stills, his panicked mind racing back to the same man doing much the same thing as he bled on the forest floor. 

“I wasn’t asking,” he finally hisses, suddenly forcing Hamilton’s head back and his mouth open, shoving a vial of  _ something _ into his mouth. 

He either chokes on or he swallows the bitter liquid, and Hamilton’s wretched body chooses the latter. As soon as he’s swallowed it Davies retreats, a victorious smirk stretching his jaw. 

“Go on then,” he grins, mockingly indicating the door, “run.” 

Never has Hamilton been so aware of his heart pounding in his chest. Whatever it is that Davies forced down his throat will surely take hold soon. He doesn’t have much time. If he can just get up, warn someone that Davies is here before it catches up to him, that will be enough.

He can’t allow himself to die doing nothing.

Davies seems to vanish into the darkness as Hamilton struggles to make his legs work. He rolls to the side and pushes himself up as quickly as his injury will allow. Even once he’s on his feet, he sways and almost falls back to the bed.

Somewhere nearby there’s a chuckle. “Go on. I suspect you have a minute, maybe two, before it really takes effect.”

He can’t see the door in the darkness, but Hamilton knows these rooms by heart. He knows exactly how far away it is, and how unlikely it is he can reach it in his state.

Still, he steels himself, and takes a step forward, then another. The room tilts under his bare feet. His heart beats like a drum in his ears.

There’s movement behind him, and then a faint light. Davies has lit a candle so he can observe the struggle. 

Hamilton pushes down panic, tries to block out the likely image of the general finding him dead on the floor come morning. He takes a step, and then another.

The room spins.

He knows there’s nothing nearby to steady him, but his hands grope out nonetheless, desperate to find something to balance on. The pain in his side is searing, and the faint light behind him plays with the shadows along the floor. Each step is deliberate effort, taking concentration he doesn’t have.

A few more steps and he’ll be at the door. Hamilton steadies himself, takes a wobbly step forward.

His knees give out. He collapses.

“You’re so close,” Davies’ voice floats through his ears. Footsteps, movement behind him.

_ No, no, no _ , he cannot give up here. Hamilton pushes up on his elbows and nearly blacks out at the movement, only clinging to awareness out of his own sheer stubbornness. Pain pulses in his side. He moves an arm forward, drags his body behind it. He does it again, and again.

So close.

But then his arms stop cooperating too, and all Hamilton can manage is to dig his nails into the floor. This is the end, it must be. He tries with his remaining strength to lift his arm just to try to reach the door, but the limb refuses to move. In fact, his sluggish mind points out a moment later, he cannot move at all.

Only his heart continues to beat, and that doesn’t slow, doesn't stop. Not poison then- it takes Hamilton a moment to realize he isn’t dead.

He is, however, frozen in a pathetic half curled pose, his head resting against one arm and drooling onto the floor. The ache in his side lingers, ever persistent.

The footsteps move closer, and he’s rolled onto his back by a strong hand. Davies grins down at him, his features sharp and shadowed by the candlelight. He crouches low, reaches out, and wipes the drool from his chin. 

“There we are,” he says in a voice too gentle for the current situation. “It’s an interesting concoction, isn’t it? The body frozen, but the mind fully aware. I imagine it  _ feels  _ disconcerting to say the least.”

Hamilton cannot respond- any words he might possess are buried somewhere deep inside. Davies reaches forward and cups his chin, turns his head so their eyes are forced to meet. 

Panic sparks in his soul, though outwardly Hamilton appears utterly calm.

Davies toys with his grip, rolls Hamilton’s head this way and that, and grins.

“God, you’re a pretty sight like this; frightened and in pain, forced into submission - it’s absolutely exquisite. I knew when I first laid eyes on you that I had to have you like this.” Hamilton’s heart beats like a hummingbird’s wings, and yet all he can do is stare. Davies teases him with the candle, tipping it back and forth casually, knowing Hamilton’s eyes are following it with trepidation. 

He tips it a bit more, just enough, and the hot wax splashes against Alexander’s face, painfully close to the sensitive skin near his eyes. 

His whole body screams with the need to escape - he wants to jolt away and cry out and at least goddamn  _ move _ \- but he does nothing, remains infuriatingly still and outwardly calm. 

Davies knows better though, Hamilton can tell by his smarmy grin he knows Hamilton’s in pain, enjoys the minuscule responses to it that the boy can manage. 

“Look at you, a perfect little doll.” Hamilton feels his stomach flip, and revulsion pools there knowingly. “My perfect little pet.” 

Just like that he releases his grip and moves out of Hamilton’s line of sight. The paralyzed boy listens as his steps stop near the bed, and a few seconds later the room brightens and roars.

He didn’t…

Davies reappears and is not at all gentle when he scoops Hamilton into his arms. Hamilton can’t turn his head, but out of the corner of his eye he sees the flames growing, overtaking the blankets left on the bed. It doesn’t take much thought to realize he’s dropped the candle to let the bed, the room, their  _ headquarters _ burn.

Hamilton can’t warn anyone- Washington, Laurens, any of the others surely fast asleep in their rooms throughout the house right now. 

“I do hope the general survives this,” Davies says as he opens the door and steps into the hall, Hamilton limp in his arms. “I’ve additional plans that require him alive. Then again, if he doesn’t, there’s nobody to get in our way.”

Hamilton feels his heart stutter at that, and an instant later Davies is looking down into his face again. 

“You can’t be terribly surprised. Did you think I was out to kill General Washington?” Davies’ grip is impossibly secure as he walks down the hall. Hamilton sees flames behind them, starting to lick at the floorboards in the hall. This whole thing had never been about destroying Washington…In his next breath Davies confirms it. “Oh no, pet. Leaving your general shattered and broken is an excellent bonus, but you’re the one I really want."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We know, we're awful for leaving it there - a cliffhanger AGAIN - but we just couldn't resist. PLEASE tell us what you thought about the chapter, what you liked, disliked, screamed over, etc. :) Chapter Four is the fun chapter to write, so y'all can speculate what that means at will ;) Love to you all and thanks for reading!


	4. the unimaginable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headquarters is gone. Alexander is gone. Everything is falling apart.
> 
> But Davies is not finished with any of them yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omigosh, another update within a week?! Crazy.
> 
> We're getting to the end, folks! But don't worry, there are two planned stories to come behind this one!

By the time Washington emerges from the thin line of trees, his short walk having turned into more than an hour, the building housing their headquarters is entirely engulfed in flame. The fire reaches toward the clouds overhead and turns the sky an odd, murky grey. His head is clouded, and it takes a long moment for the general to process what he’s seeing. When the realization hits, he races toward the building.

Men are gathered outside, shouting to each other, some stacking important papers a safe distance away, others throwing buckets of water, though those will do no good. Washington finds his feet planted to the ground once he’s in range, taking in the scene in horror.

Off to one side two men are restraining a familiar figure, a man fighting to break away, straining toward the burning building. A shout spurs Washington into action.

“Colonel Laurens!” Washington finds focus, his usual tone of command as he approaches the group. The man trying to get back inside stiffens, straightens, and whips his head toward the general.

“Sir!” He dashes forward, forgoing anything like a salute. “Alexander- he’s still inside!”

Something cracks nearby and part of the building gives way, scattering the men. In that same moment Washington is sure something inside him breaks too. God,  _ no _ . To lose him now, after everything he’s gone through.

Another crack, and Laurens bolts forward. Washington reacts out of instinct, slings an arm around the younger man’s waist and pulls him back. “Laurens, no!”

He’s lost one boy tonight, Washington thinks numbly, he will not lose another.

“Let me go!” Washington closes his eyes against Laurens’ begging, trying to block away the horror. “Let me go!  _ He’ll die _ ! Alexander will- I have to go in!” 

“It’s too late John!” Washington roars, his own grief spilling into the words. 

He’d been out walking. As his headquarters burned, as his- his… as Hamilton had burned, he’d been out for a stroll. If he’d been in his bedroom, or even his office, he would have been able to reach Alexander in time, gotten him to safety. Or maybe he wouldn’t have been able to manage it, but at least he wouldn’t be  _ here _ \- alive and well and useless - while Alexander was _ dead. _

Voicing it, even just in his thoughts, sends sharp shards of pain through his chest. 

He couldn’t move - oh God - Alexander had barely been able to move, he’d have to lay against the bed, or perhaps try and crawl away as the fire took him. The only hope Washington has, the only mercy he can think of, is that Alexander had passed from the smoke before the flames reached him. 

_ Better he pass away in his sleep _ , the doctor’s words, uttered barely two weeks ago, ring too loud in his head. 

Laurens sags in his grip, overcome by emotion as he tries desperately not to cry. 

Washington feels too empty to cry. 

There is nothing they can do for Hamilton. The boy needed him most and he wasn’t here.

There is nothing they can do either for the weakening structure burning in front of them. It finally gives, collapses on itself, and only then do the flames start to exhaust themselves. There’s not much left to burn, and a handful of men quell the remaining flames until all that’s left is a smoldering pile of charred wood. 

Washington shoves his own emotions aside. They need to go through these salvaged papers, investigate the fire itself. At some point, once he was convinced Laurens would not try again to run inside, he let the boy go. He sits on the ground nearby, possessing no will to move.

Someone says a tent nearby has been cleared for the General, his staff, and the saved work. The orders roll off of Washington’s tongue easily- it takes little thought, no effort. He thinks of nothing else, sees no unfamiliar faces- everything a single, narrow view. He helps Laurens to his feet and together they move toward the tent. 

He hears the whispers. Private a man as Washington is, there is still talk. There will always be talk.

"General Washington has been distracted for weeks over Hamilton's state. He pays no attention to the state of the army."

"The general makes himself look weak."

Washington keeps his eyes fixed on the ground as they walk. He hears every whisper, feels eyes on him. It’s true. He won’t,  _ can’t  _ change a thing.

"Does Washington even know what's going on?"

"Sacrificed over two dozen men because of Hamilton."

He did. But such is the way of a parent. He’ll feel guilt for the rest of his life, but it’ll never hurt the way  _ this _ hurts; Alexander dead and him alive. 

“Was there anybody else?” Washington dares to ask the question once they reach the tent. A few blank faces stare back at him.

“Sir?” One aide questions- he must be looking for clarification. 

“Were any others killed in the fire?” Washington’s voice is strangely detached, emotionless. All he wants is to sink into the ground right here, but he keeps going. There’s no choice but to keep going. He can mourn later, after...

“No, sir,” a different aide answers. “Only a handful of men choked on the smoke trying to warn us once the fire broke out. They’ve already been seen to by a doctor, and they’ll survive.”

So, everyone survived, save the one most important...

The converted work tent is a little too small and much too crowded for any of them to get efficient work done. Work itself turns into several men speculating the cause of the fire while others sort through the salvaged papers. When Washington enters, conversation falls silent, papers go still in the hands of the aides holding them. 

These men are his most loyal, and he trusts them completely. They don’t speak out over what’s happened these last weeks, but certainly they’ve all heard the same whispers. Every moment, every breath is almost more devastating than the last, so at least Washington can be grateful for the loyalty here.

They work until the sun comes up, the tent warm with the number of men packed into it. Washington slouches into an empty chair and pages through the stack of letters piled just in front of him. It's an impossible thing to focus on the details, but somehow, aided by either instinct or memory, he sorts through the papers at hand.

Across from him Laurens sits before a blank parchment. He holds a quill in his hand, but he only stares at the writing desk in his lap. It seems he can't bring himself to write. No surprise there.

He’s the one expected to write to his father about this, but how would he even begin? Laurens has to tell him, on top of everything else that’s happened, that they’ve lost their headquarters- there are documents that could not be saved, surely, and he’s lost his best friend. Washington doesn’t have the words to offer either instruction or comfort.

The tent flap suddenly bursts open with such quickness that papers flutter through the tent. A man in uniform rushes in, a boy no older than twelve on his heels. 

"Your Excellency," the man greets. Washington doesn't remember his name, but he's seen this man before. The officer grasps the boy by the arm and pulls him forward. 

“What’s the meaning of this?” Washington stands, brow furrowed. 

The officer looks to the boy and tosses his head in Washington’s direction, "Tell the general what you told me."

The boy seems terrified, stares up at Washington, "Just before the fire, I saw a man. He was carrying Colonel Hamilton to the medical tent."

Washington can't breathe, "You're certain?"

The boy nods, "I've talked with Colonel Hamilton before. I'm sure I recognized him."

Washington is running before he's even consciously decided to move. He races toward the medical tent aware that there's someone else right on his heels- Laurens. There's no need to turn around and confirm it.

When he shoves aside the flap and steps into the medical tent every man inside stops mid action and stares. It might be funny were Washington not on so urgently searching. “Colonel Hamilton,” He strides to the first medic he sees, unintentionally at his most imposing, and causing the poor man to shrink back. “I was told he was brought here. Where is he?”

“Colonel Hamilton?” The medic parrots, but Washington is already scanning the room. His towering height allows him a quick, full view, and he’s not seeing the man he came here looking for. “Sir,” the medic shakes his head, eyes wide and almost fearful. “Colonel Hamilton hasn’t been here. Only a couple of your men came in, coughing from the smoke, but they’ve gone back to their duties. Hamilton did not come here.”

He must see Washington’s expression abruptly shift.

“I’m sorry, Your Excellency. If someone brings him in, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

That’s- that isn’t right. He needn’t question the boy who’d made the claim to know; the doctor said a few of his men had  _ walked in  _ coughing, the boy claimed he saw someone being  _ carried _ . 

Which means-

Horror of a different sort cascades through the general. 

All of these things that could have happened: perhaps the boy was wrong, and it wasn’t Hamilton he saw being carried to the medic’s tent. He might have died before reaching it. Washington is certain the boy was in no shape to move himself. Or he just died right where Washington assumed he was, broken and unable to move.

Every scenario leads to Hamilton dead in his mind, and he can’t push the image away.

Disappointed and a little heartbroken, he returns to the work tent with Laurens trailing close behind. A pair of men linger outside the tent, both covered head to toe in ash and dirt, uniforms strewn with dirt and muck. One of them steps forward when he spots Washington.

“Your Excellency,” he greets with a quick salute. Washington does not need to ask what they’re doing there- the state of their uniforms clearly communicate the task they’ve been assigned. “We just finished going through the debris in the house. We were told Colonel Hamilton might have remained inside.”

Washington feels something frigid seize his heart. He’s lost count how many times this has happened now. “And?”

The man shakes his head, “We found nothing. No body, no remains, sir. We don’t think Colonel Hamilton was there.”

An immediate relief shifts into abrupt terror. Hamilton did not burn in the fire, but also he is not to be found in this camp. Then where is he?

Where… where… 

“Your Excellency, sir,” Laurens speaks up. When Washington looks in his direction he sees another man in uniform with a messenger bag walking away from them. The general is surprised- he didn’t even notice this last man. Laurens clears his throat and holds out an envelope from the small stack of three in his hands. “This one’s for you, sir.”

Washington takes the envelope and opens the seal right there. Next to him Laurens looks at the remaining two envelopes. From the corner of his eye the general recognizes one with Laurens’ own handwriting, addressed to his father.

“I sent this one out,” He says, confused. “The messenger came last night, just before the fire. Why would it have been returned without being delivered?”

He opens the second one as Washington begins reading his own note.

Laurens’ eyes fly rapidly over the parchment in his hands. His lips press tight together, fingers grip the edge so the page begins to crumple. “This troop movement, it’s not what we asked for,” His voice is quiet in disbelief as he holds the letter for Washington to read. “I collaborated on this letter, but the response is the opposite of the order. Something is wrong. I  _ know _ what this order said.”

Washington furrows his brow and glances over the response to the supposed order before returning his attention to his own note. Once again the ice inside him returns, slowly inching up his spine.

_ Tired yet, general? Want one last show?  _

_ Find us where Alexander and I first met. Act with haste or you will not catch us. _

_ Come alone, or you will never see Alexander alive again _ .

There is no signature attached to the note, but there is no doubt as to who the writer is. Washington pockets the note and sticks it into his coat pocket. He knows where to go- Davies  _ very _ vividly explained the spot upon arriving with the injured boy. And all for this. He’s had this moment, this, planned from that first meeting.

It may be foolish, but Washington explains nothing to Laurens as he turns and walks away. He’s a fair distance off before he even hears the boy call after him, and by the time he mounts his horse there’s no catching up to him.

The ride isn’t a long one from camp. Washington knows these woods well enough, but as for the exact spot, it takes some searching. He leaves his horse tied to a tree and carries on on foot. He knows there’s a clearing somewhere within these woods. He doesn’t expect the silence. He listens for a shout, a warning from Hamilton. 

There’s’ nothing- no sound, but a short distance away, a break in the trees.

Washington breaks through the clearing of trees and stops dead in his tracks. 

Hamilton looks like a ragdoll, completely limp in Davies’ hold and staring listlessly at nothing. For a moment Washington thinks he’s dead, until his eyes move ever so slightly and focus onto him - there is a smallest hint of fear, it escapes from whatever it is that Davies has done to him. 

As if this entire situation were not horrifying enough, Washington notices how Davies is holding his aide. The boy is pressed close to the man’s chest by an arm that snakes around his waist, while his head is propped up and played with with Davies’ other hand. 

Davies is _ petting _ Alexander. 

It seems  _ perverse _ to look at, Washington can’t imagine how it feels to the boy. That thought alone lurches him forward with the singular motive of ripping the poor boy away from that grip.

Davies hand moves faster than Washington can track, suddenly gripping Hamilton’s jaw and forcing it back. There’s a knife there, gently caressing the boy’s skin where fingers had just been. 

“Don’t be hasty,” Davies tuts, mocking him. “We’ve plenty of time, _ Your Excellency _ .”

Washington stops, eyes flickering between the knife, the boy, and his captor. “Time for what, Davies?” He manages to speak evenly, despite his taut muscles and stiff stature. 

“To play a bit, of course. Is this not fun? Look at him,” he grins, maneuvering Hamilton’s head carelessly, cruelly, “a perfect new toy; a little porcelain doll. Isn’t that right, doll?” 

He drops Alexander’s head and Washington winces as it snaps downwards. 

“You’re not one to take to your whiskies I’ve heard, General. Has something upset you lately? Can’t imagine what could’ve been more important that tending  _ him _ .” He flattens the knife against Alexander’s neck, using it to shove his head upright. It doesn’t slice into his skin as it would, but it certainly cuts him. 

“That’s enough Samuel,” he forces between tight teeth, “I’m here, there’s no need to treat Colonel Hamilton in such a manner.” 

“Colonel Hamilton or Alexander,” Davies wonders aloud, absentmindedly resuming his petting. “I’ve heard both.” 

Cold begins to churn in Washington’s gut. “We’ve played quite enough I think. Give Hamilton to me.” 

“I do not take orders from you, general. And as for Hamilton… no, I rather like him; I think I want to keep him.” 

“Do not break your word-”

“I break nothing,” Davies hisses, violently jerking Alexander’s hair up. “I told you you’d never see the boy alive again if you did not come, I did not say I would kill him, nor did I say I’d let him go.” 

Washington stills completely, all too aware of the knife biting into Hamilton’s neck. Davies’ words fill him with a new kind of fear, because as much as he fears Alexander’s death, he’d never even imagined what his  _ life  _ would be like if this psychopath decides to take him. 

“Davies…” his tone is warning, cautious, and threatening all in one. His fingers twitch towards his pistol. “I do not intend to leave without Colonel Hamilton.” 

“Move to draw your gun anymore and you’ll return with a corpse.” He almost sounds bored as he says it. “As for your leaving, oh no, you’ll definitely do just exactly that - it’s not a matter of killing me or getting him back - your war depends on you obeying me.” 

“What are you talking about?” Washington’s face betrays no alarm but Davies sees it all the same. 

“I was sent to ruin you, General, and ruin you I did. But it’s not enough - thirty men dead does not a war won make - but contradicting orders from the desk of General George Washington himself? Well, that might just leave the entire cause in shambles.” 

“...What have you done?” 

“What I do best; a little manipulation here, a little force there,  _ et voila _ , you’re brought to your knees. Colonel Laurens is a rather dashing man as well, isn’t he? Even though he’s gullible and quite foolish and he should really learn to verify who takes his outgoing letters; does he usually have a penchant for finishing all  _ your _ work in the dead of night?” Washington fights not to growl as Davies mentions Laurens, too aware of his connection to Hamilton. 

“It’s an unfortunate thing,” Davies continues, “a general being so distracted by his ailing aide that he sends out a horde of messages which contradict each other. Each major command suddenly moving against the orders of another, chaos amongst the ranks irreparable.” 

Washington doesn’t reply. There’s nothing he can say against that, it’s true. And if Davies has somehow managed to send these contradicting letters out then the war will be at its end. 

He’ll be tried as a traitor and Hamilton- Hamilton will- Davies will take him. 

“But it doesn’t have to be so!” Davies suddenly interrupts his thoughts, far more enthusiastic than he has any right to be. “If you walk away now I’ll be able to return to my man in time to stay the order. Your army will march on. Your reputation amongst your men damaged, yes, and you shattered with the loss of your  _ dear Alexander _ ,” Davies takes Alexander’s jaw in hand again and forces him to look at Washington, “but your cause lives on.” 

Washington barely listens to him, he hears the words and understands them, but his entire focus is on how Alexander now looks. 

In the new light of morning he can see burns under his eyes, but not like those sustained a fire. The red welts drip down his cheeks like tears. Candle wax, Washington realizes with a jolt of anger. 

The boy can’t move his face, that much is obvious, because there are tears streaming from his eyes and yet his expression betrays no upset. 

He expects Washington to leave him. 

God, he might be right. 

Can Washington sacrifice the entire war to save him? 

The answer is yes, he could. But  _ would _ he? It is certainly what he wants to do, but this war… it is not fought for the sake of bruised egos; they are trying to free themselves and become a country of their own. It’s imperative that they’re victorious. The lives of countless men depend on it. 

He sees no other choice. And it breaks him. 

“I’m  _ sorry _ ,” his voice cracks, too heavy with his betrayal. 

Something dims in Hamilton’s eyes, and Washington cannot bear to look anymore.

He tears his gaze away from the boy and settles it onto Davies. This man knows what he’s doing, that he’s taking a man’s child away; he was right when he predicted it’d leave Washington shattered.

Davies wrenches the boy’s hair again, pulling it back and tipping his head up at a painful-looking angle. “First you’re going to watch your supposed protector leave you,” he sneers, obviously meaning for Washington to hear as well. “And then you and I are going to have some fun.” 

The way Davies pulls Hamilton in closer, how he caresses his neck with the knife is unbearable for Washington to watch. Hamilton’s foot moves, just a bit, moves as if it would scramble for purchase if it could. Davies regards him amusedly. 

“Is it wearing off? Well, I suppose when you think of how long it’s been since I first gave it to you - hours ago now - it is not all that wholly disappointing… You trying to fight me might make it more entertaining actually, will make the prize all the better.” He grabs at Hamilton’s jaw, simultaneously covering his mouth and pulling his head back up to watch Washington. His thumb toys with the boy’s bottom lip, wipes away his tears. 

It must be so awful, especially to a boy who’d taken such pride and dignity in his ascension to be used so. Washington knows Hamilton is scared, and hurt, and humiliated. 

“We’re waiting, general, for you to take your leave.” 

Washington knows what he should do, as heartbreaking as it will be to do it. Hamilton is watching him, a little more expressive now. It’d be easier if he held all the betrayal in the world in his eyes, not this pitiful acceptance. 

Alexander still doesn’t believe that he means something to Washington. He still doesn’t understand that he’s cared for- loved even - as a father would their son. 

“Do not try my patience, Washington; leave now or see your war in shambles.” 

He glances once more at Alexander, searing his features into his memory, and turns. 

“Don’t you see, pet? Fathers are not things to be depended on, but me? I will  _ always _ be in your life.”

Washington had once told Hamilton that James Hamilton was a fool. 

“I’m going to make you scream until you can’t remember your own-”

A shot goes off.

Washington’s gun smokes, unwavering in his hand despite how quickly he drew and fired. He is the Commander-in-Chief of the continental army, every time he fires a bullet he does so with a deadly accuracy. There’s a rage in his eye that reminds Hamilton that this is  _ the _ General George Washington. 

Davies collapses, releasing Hamilton who also sinks to the forest floor before Washington can catch him. Davies makes gasping, gurgling noises, a bullet hole bleeding between his neck and collarbone. 

The general sinks to his knees next to his aide, who had somehow become so much more than an aide, and lifts him into his arms. It’s then he realizes those gurgling noises are fits of laughter, making them all the more horrific.

“You think you’re clever?” Davies spits, red staining his teeth. “You think you’ve won? You’ve doomed your entire army, your war, for one boy.” 

He huffs one more macabre laugh and falls still, leaving just Washington and Alexander in the clearing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed please leave us a comment! We love feedback!
> 
> You can find both of us and more of our Hamilton fics on tumblr!


	5. hard won wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to recovery is a long one, maybe even longer than Washington and Hamilton think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finished! This will be the last part of "waiting in the wings" but stay tuned for Part II of our Past Patiently Waiting series! Kay and I are so grateful to each and every reader of this piece, we've had an amazing five weeks working on this piece and we're very excited to begin our next. Still going strong, don't worry!

Hamilton’s breaths are coming fast and short, his eyes are blown wide, and he what he can move of his face looks horrified. He’s covered in the splatter of Davies’ blood. Washington focuses on Hamilton, only on the boy in his arms. He does not stop to examine the body beside them.

“Wh-why…?” It’s still hard for Hamilton to speak, even without the aftershocks of the paralytic further forcing his silence. “Why would y’do that?”

“Shush,” Washington is efficient, focused. He checks Hamilton for additional injuries, but other than the lingering effects causing his limbs to refuse to move, a barely bleeding cut on his neck and the twin burns on his cheeks already fading, it seems Davies did not cause any further physical damage. Hamilton makes an odd, strained sound as Washington rises with him.

It’s only once he’s on his feet that he remembers the far more serious injury to Hamilton’s side and murmurs a quick apology. With the boy in his arms Washington has no choice but to walk back to camp- a jostling ride on the back of the horse will do no good for that wound.

The trip will be a lot longer on foot. His horse waits patiently where Washington dismounted.

“Why?” Hamilton croaks again. It’s a clear struggle for him to move his lips and force his voice to work. “He- th’orders’ll be sent. Leave me, you c’n stop ‘em.”

“I’m not leaving you here.”

“But-”

_ “No,  _ Alexander,” Washington pulls him a little closer without a second thought. Hamilton’s muscles go tense, but he can’t lift his arms or pull away. He knows too, the situation is dire. Hamilton seems certain that Davies was telling the truth- he intercepted those outgoing orders.

It makes sense. Davies got the letters from Laurens, returned the one he sent his father, because surely the man would recognize his son’s writing, and sent just one note back with contradicting orders. One note as a mere preview of the chaos about to ensue if they do not figure out a way to stop it.

Washington got Alexander back. He can stop this too.

“He… I w’s there when he…” Davies brought Alexander with him when he’d given the orders to the messenger. God, they were alone together for  _ hours _ . 

“Are you hurt?” What a stupid question, but Washington’s eyes scan the body in his arms, searching for any damage that might still be hidden.

The answer doesn’t come quickly enough. Hamilton’s eyes slip near closed and for a beat the general verges on panic. 

“Hamilton, are you-”

“He… didn’t,” the boy struggles through words that should be so easy to say. “Didn’ hurt me.”

Hamilton doesn’t add anything else to the statement, but Washington understands. Davies would have waited to cause any further damage until he was certain Washington was going to walk away. He’d have wanted the general to know exactly what he was condemning Alexander to. 

Another quick glance at the boy’s face betrays just how exhausted he is. Thinking back over the whirlwind of the last day or so leaves Washington unsteady enough- he can’t even think of when Hamilton may have last slept. He adjusts his grip carefully and apologizes again when a hiss escapes Hamilton’s teeth.

Truthfully, Washington is worried about the coming storm as well. He didn’t know what he’d do now, but he  _ did _ know that he’d turned away from Alexander and heard Davies speak to him like  _ that _ and knew he’d sacrifice  _ anything _ to keep him safe. 

After this, Washington is never going to be able to let Hamilton out of his sight without feeling the stirrings of panic in his chest; that cold that had become so consistent in the past few hours. 

Hamitlon drifts off to sleep within minutes of their short conversation. It can’t be comfortable, but Washington imagines this is the safest he’s felt in the weeks since Davies showed up in camp with him. 

He walks for what seems like ages through the woods back in the direction of camp, and it dawns on Washington how tired he is as well. Everything aches and he feels twenty years older.

It’s something of a miracle that Laurens and another aide meet them halfway back to camp. After a brief reunion and exclamation that Alexander is alive, which the boy in question sleeps through, Washington falls back into that natural mode of giving orders. 

“Colonel Laurens,” The short, clipped words come with easy efficiency. Take care of the most serious issue first. “Return to camp and send out the fastest riders you know to any battalion that may have gotten an order in the last two weeks, no, make it three weeks. They are to stay whatever orders they've been given and shall send a representative to headquarters where we will work out a signal for relaying orders in the future. That way men with wicked intentions cannot intercept and change outgoing instructructions.” 

Laurens stares at him for a moment, eyes widening as realization of what happened with the letters at camp dawns on him. He glances once at Alexander, and then gives a nod. “Yes, sir.” 

As Laurens rides off at rapid speed Washington shifts his attention to the other man. Now for a more grim task.

“Back that way, in the clearing,” Washington nods in the direction he and Hamilton have come. “You’ll find a man’s body. Burn it and leave no trace of items that may identify him. You should find my horse nearby as well. Return to camp with him once you’ve finished.”

The other aide nods, salutes, and rides off in the direction opposite Laurens.

Washington takes a moment to close his eyes before resuming their trek. Finally, finally, this nightmare is at an end.

* * *

Hamilton wakes, groggy and aching and finding an unfamiliar low ceiling overhead. The room itself is surprisingly warm, and two small windows nearby let in afternoon sunlight and make the room bright enough for him to realize a few seconds later that he does not know this place. 

Davies.

He lets out a wild sound, something akin to a growl, and quickly sits up. His side flares in pain, and Hamilton nearly loses his balance and falls off the bed. In fact, he would have ended up with his face against the floor had something sturdy not reached out to steady him.

“Relax, son,” the familiar voice is close by, attached to the hand holding him more or less upright. 

Hamilton isn’t sure how he missed it when he awakened, but Washington is seated in a chair directly next to the bed. He looks tired, but sits, posture erect as ever, and Alexander wonders how much time has passed since he planted himself there.

“Where?” The first question seems the most sensible. His throat is dry, but the single word is the closest to normal his voice has sounded since this ordeal began.

“One of the locals was kind enough to lease us temporary quarters, at least until our own can be rebuilt. You’re safe here.”

It’s not that he doesn’t trust his general, but unease lingers in his chest. “The fire- it was Davies. He knocked over a candle and he forced me to drink something and I couldn’t  _ move _ . I don’t… is everyone all right?”

Hamilton can’t bear the thought that more men have died because of him.

Washington nods, “Everyone escaped the blaze, though we thought for some time we’d lost you.”

“Davies,” Hamilton closes his eyes. That face lingers in the darkness, grinning at him, and he quickly opens them again.

“He’s dead,” Washington finishes. “Do you remember?”

He does remember the grip around his waist going slack, warm blood against his face, but instead of relief, it’s anxiety that creeps up Hamilton’s spine. “No, Davies had messages. He stole them from headquarters somehow and changed every order to pit our troops against each other and-”

“It’s taken care of,” Washington replies in an uncharacteristically gentle tone. “Laurens and our fastest riders are out putting those orders right. You’ve been asleep nearly a full day.”

Hamilton hums as he tries to push away all of that built up concern, but finds he has trouble doing so, even as the general helps him to lay back on the mattress once more. Once he’s prone again, he finds his gaze drifting away from Washington. If he’s been asleep nearly a day it doesn’t feel like it, because sleep is already reaching to pull at him again.

“Alexander…”

“Hm, sir?” He focuses his eyes again, concentrates on Washington’s face. It takes effort.

“My boy, I owe you so many apologies. If I’d believed you, trusted you in the first place, the moment you said Davies was the man who attacked you, none of this would have happened. I’m sorry. I know that will never be enough, but I am. And I will not allow this to happen again.”

Hamilton stares at the general with wide eyes until he feels something pricking at the corners. He blinks rapidly, turning his cheek against a pillow. What does he say to that? What  _ can _ he say? Davies came after him, caused pain on a level he’s not experienced before, toyed with the general’s emotions and ultimately lead to the deaths of more than two dozen men, the loss of their headquarters, and who knows how much important information regarding the war. 

It’s not all right, it never was, and yet…

“I forgive you,” He murmurs, sleepy. There’s nothing he can add to that to make it seem more eloquent. The whole situation serves to prove that the general is as human and prone to fault as any man. That frightens Hamilton a bit. “I’m sorry too,” he adds uneasily, recalling an outburst and refusing to speak to Washington just before the fire.

Washington sighs, and as Hamilton’s eyes drift closed again, he feels a gentle hand squeeze the back of his neck. “You’ve done nothing you need to apologize for.”

…

Washington leaves the room once he’s certain Hamilton is asleep again. The relief to see him awake, lucid, is almost overwhelming. The boy is alive, recovering- the doctor reported that he will probably be able to get out of bed in a couple weeks, and resume most of his typical duties a couple weeks after.

The notion leaves Washington both thrilled, and terrified.

The aide he’d sent to dispose of Davies had returned just as darkness fell the night before, confused. He was unable to find a body. Nor did he find Washington’s horse. Perhaps he wound up in the wrong clearing.

A number of things could have happened here. He  _ knows _ he shot Davies. He  _ knows  _ where his bullet struck. He remembers the stain of blood on the man’s teeth. Washington shouldn’t dwell on it, shouldn’t worry, but God, he does.

When Washington returns to the room he’s been loaned for use as an office, a small space he’d typically assume is for storage, he finds Laurens waiting outside the door. The man looks like he’s barely on his feet, likely he rode through the whole night, but he still straightens and offers a salute.

“We were able to reach the other battalions without much trouble, sir,” Laurens begins. He follows the general into the little office, and then, seeming to think better of it, lingers near the door. The room doesn’t seem quite large enough for two men. “There was some confusion, and some men had begun marching, but they were stopped before any damage could occur. Each camp will have a man here to discuss how to prevent this in the future- a week from yesterday.”

“Good,” Washington’s reply is quick, even. He doesn’t need to put emotion into it for both of them to realize how dangerous this situation might have become.

“Sir,” Laurens doesn’t wait to shift the conversation. “Is Alexander…”

Washington looks up from a paper sitting on his desk and nods, “The doctor thinks he’ll be recovered within a month. It seems after being abducted he wasn’t injured any further. He’ll need time to heal.”

“I’d like to see him.”

Washington doesn’t want to say how relieved he is at that. If Laurens wishes to go sit with Hamilton, then he can push away the worry that still clings to him, at least for a little while. “He’s sleeping now, but when he wakes I believe he’d enjoy the company. Up the stairs. The last room on the right.”

Laurens nods and moves to leave, his back is turned when Washington’s voice stops him. 

“Laurens,” the general calls, hesitance in his voice. The boy turns his head to watch him. “I am truly sorry for how I behaved after the news of the lost men came; I regard my actions as inexcusable but if you’d find it in yourself to forgive me-”

“I forgave you the moment after it happened, Your Excellency. The stress and pain you were under… I not only sympathize, I understand.” 

The words lift a weight from Washington’s shoulders. He nods and offers as friendly as an expression as he dares. “Hamilton is lucky to have as brave and as kind of a man as you are as his best friend.” 

Laurens grins and thanks him, quietly leaving. Washington picks up a pen and turns his attention to the stack of papers. Anxiety still pulls at him, teases him and makes him almost want to run upstairs too just to check on Alexander.

Almost.

Instead Washington takes a breath and begins to work. They’ll all recover. They’ll all get past this eventually.

They’ll have to.

* * *

They never recovered Davies’ body. In the month following the whole ordeal Washington had searched the clearing himself, and while there was blood staining the forest floor, there was also the absence of a body. He prayed that it meant some animal dragged him away, but that little inkling of worry started to overflow. 

Hamilton’s recovery is going smoothly, albeit slowly. The wound in his side still pains him, Washington knows it does. Alexander tries to conceal his limp, how much it hurts to put any pressure on his side still, but Washington sees through it. 

“There’s no shame in it,” he says one day. “That wound hasn’t been allowed to heal correctly since it was inflicted, it’s expected that the healing be slow.” 

“I have no shame,” Hamilton hisses back defensively. “I’m fine - or getting there at least. I don’t need to be coddled so.” 

But there was no real malice in his words, just a bit of frustration. He’s walking at least, and his voice is the same as it was. 

Washington moves him into his chambers after everything that happened. The risk to Hamilton’s life is too glaringly obvious to ignore any longer; Davies said that he had been sent, if there is even a remote chance that the English had ordered Davies to attack Alexander specifically he will respond accordingly. 

So the boy stays in a bed brought to Washington’s personal chambers, with the other aides sleeping in another room down the hall. 

Washington barely lets him out of his sight, insistent of doing everything for him, and worries constantly about the things he does for himself. 

It’s maddening. 

It’s not that Hamilton doesn’t understand, he does. He jumps at shadows, closes his eyes and all he can see is that grin, he hears whispers too close to his ear that were never there. 

Washington’s presence helps him; the opposite might also be true but he doesn’t know - Washington had almost sacrificed the war for him, and they were… closer than most employers and aides generally are, and at some point Hamilton has to admit to himself that that indicates a far more familial relationship between them. But he doesn’t know what to do with that. 

He liked how it was before, when it was just this unspoken thing between them, but now actions have spoken louder than words and yet it’s still unspoken. 

Also maddening. 

Now, they are in an area that is horrifically grey; what is overstepping? What is too formal? And in Washington’s case, what qualifies and being  _ too _ protective? 

_ This _ , Hamilton argues, is not protection but control. He’s hardly  _ allowed _ to go anywhere without a  _ supervisor _ . 

“I’m not a child,” he bites one day. “We’re in the middle of camp, I needn’t a guard.” 

“And yet you’ll have one,” Washington replies without looking up from his notes. “We agreed you’d at least try not to fight me too hard on this Hamilton.” 

“And I think you’ll agree that I’ve been spectacularly patient with it, but really-”

“I do not want to take the chance-”

“What does it matter, if Davies is dead?” 

“He was  _ sent _ here Alexander!” Washington roars, struggling to control his growl. “If not in the original orders, the British certainly know your name by now, he’d of reported back to them.” 

“And so what if they know of my name! There is very little stock in a name like mine!” 

“That’s not the point and you know it!” Washington stands. “Your position, your proximity to me has made you a target and I will not let this happen again.” 

Hamilton also stands, but winces and clutches the back of his chair, pain shooting through his side. “I am no different than any of the other aides.” 

Again, Washington shoots him a look, which somehow pierces into Hamilton’s very core. “Do not be purposefully blind to the facts,” he rumbles lowly. Both parties having lost their steam, Washington sits again. “You’ll be accompanied by the guard whenever you’re not in these quarters.” 

Hamilton hears what’s not said: End of conversation. 

“Your missives then,  _ Your Excellency _ ,” he hisses, angry. He takes the pile of messages and letters from his coat, depositing them unceremoniously on the desk. “I’m taking my leave now, in case you need to document it somewhere or send four watchdogs after me.” 

The boy spins on his heel before Washington can reply, marching his way out the door with a slam. 

He considers following him, but that’s probably not wise right now. Instead he leafs through the missives which had been thrown onto his desk so carelessly. Most are relevant to Congress, but there’s one that makes him stop dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. 

He knows the handwriting; had seen it in his nightmares for a month. 

It’s just his name, folded and held together by a nondescript seal. Washington tears the letter open, that cold terror pooling in his gut. There’s only one line, but it’s enough. 

_ Do you really think you can keep him safe every hour of every day? _

Davies. He survived. But- but that was impossible, Washington had delivered that wound himself how could he possibly...?

That didn’t matter; he needed to get Alexander back here, needed to be able to see him, protect him. 

“Guard,” he calls, summoning the man into the room. “Call Colonel Hamilton back, I’ve… work for him to do.” 

“He said he’d be with Colonel Laurens, Your Excellency,” the guard replied, seeming uncertain of his next words. “Would you still like him back or shall I deliver-”

“Did I not just order you to fetch him? Go.” 

“Yes sir.” The guard leaves with a quick bow, something Washington still occasionally cringes at. 

He worries the note in between his fingers; he can’t tell Hamilton, the boy will never be able to recover if he’s constantly worrying about the threat. He’ll just protect him, he’ll have to. Hamilton might not like it, but he’ll just have to get used to the security. 

He can’t- he won’t- what if Davies… Alexander needs to come back, he needs to come back right now. 

The door opens, Washington stands expectantly, waiting for Hamilton to storm into the room. But he doesn’t come. The guard reenters instead, timidly clearing his throat at the general’s intense scrutiny. 

“Colonel Hamilton was not with Colonel Laurens, sir,” he begins, prematurely wincing at Washington’s dark look. “Colonel Laurens says that he wanted to ride into town to deliver a message himself sir. It- it is not far.” 

“I do not care of the distance, call him back  _ now, _ ” Washington thunders. The poor soldier wastes no time in rushing away, shouting commands to the men downstairs. 

It might be embarrassing but he’d rather the boy is humiliated than taken again. 

It is a great relief to the soldier that they are able to stop the colonel’s ride, he shudders to imagine the general’s rage otherwise. The colonel’s ire is a different story, he knows what to expect and still winces at Hamilton’s fiery stare. 

“Washington summoned me you say?” 

The guard nods stiffly, averting his eyes. Hamilton is a perfect picture of Washington when  _ he’s _ angry. “General Washington indicated he had work for your doing.” 

“Work,” Hamilton sputters indignantly, “this work could not wait the hour’s time this ride will take?” 

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” 

Frustrated, Hamilton shoves past the guard and renters the headquarters. “Deal with the horse then,” he spits - he’ll regret his rudeness later but right now he isn’t in the mind for it. 

Washington is quite sure this time, that the person exploding into his office is Hamilton, no one else would dare slam the door open the way he does. But instead of raging fire in the boy’s eyes there is only ice. 

Hamilton says nothing, glaring at the general and approaching his desk like a chained bear. He’s still in his riding gear, it amplifies his rage somehow. 

Still silent, the boy reaches for the pile of correspondences and stalks to his desk. He leaves the one the general thumbs at, barely casting a second glance. 

The air itself is tense, Hamilton’s stiff obedience and Washington’s anxious worrying thick enough to cut. 

Alexander is angry, that’s fine. Let him be. But Washington won’t sacrifice his safety for anything, not even their relationship.

Davies’ words echo in his mind, a taunt and a threat and a promise all in one;  _ Do you really think you can keep him safe every hour of every day?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As in the end of Right Hand Man; BOOM. 
> 
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**Author's Note:**

> Please tell us what you think! Comments mean the world to our muses :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Strike by Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25761127) by [InkAndFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkAndFire/pseuds/InkAndFire)


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